


Endless Summer

by AmbulanceRobots



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bass Cannon-Freeform, F/M, Fluff and Humor, It causes problems, The Gibraltar kitchen sees more than its fair shake of BS, These dorks, Zarya does not like omnics, i love them, nerf guns, so adorkable, welcome to rare pair hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbulanceRobots/pseuds/AmbulanceRobots
Summary: Watchpoint: Gibraltar; the seaside base where the Mediterranean sunshine and balmy weather seems to breed shenanigans like Tribbles. In between covert humanitarian projects and neutralizing Talon ops, the place is always lively. And for one Russian soldier far from home, it has the added benefit of containing a tiny Brazilian party god.Her own personal endless summer.Alternatively: let's not even pretend that this beachfront covert ops venture is entirely professional all the time. Lúcio and Zarya do justice to the time-honored dorm tradition of stealthily invading each other's space. No one is fooled for too long. Told from a variety of views.Compiled from a list of prompts; we'll see how this all goes down together. Anyone expecting something other than grown adults being ridiculous, fluff, and maybe some smut better go find another fic. The seriousness ain't goin' in here. I lied. But just a little bit.Now up: Zarya finds a spider in her room, and Lúcio is entirely Not Cool with how she handles it. Soldier:76 just wants all these kids to go the fuck to bed.





	1. Midnight Snack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not going to be the first chapter of this fic, but it was the one that got done first. My friend wanted it posted ASAP, so here ya go. Ah well.
> 
> In which the midnight snack becomes the gossip buffet.

McCree snuffed a mild grunt of surprise as he shuffled towards the mess hall, blearily noting the light that filtered through the door’s cracks and seams. When he decided to make the sleepy trip from his quarters to the kitchen, he was rather expecting the common spaces to be empty. It couldn’t be much past two in the morning, and after several teams had rolled back into base almost simultaneously earlier that evening, most everyone had been eager to drag themselves to bed, McCree duly included. He had wholly expected to sleep straight through the night, which was somewhat rare for him these days; he’d take what he could get, whenever he could get it.

So when his eyes fluttered open in the middle of the night, with a not-quite starving but certainly irritatingly gnawing hunger curling around in his gut, he was incredibly adverse to the idea of rising to deal with it. He was still dog-tired; give it just a few minutes, and he would drift back asleep. He’d felt far worse than the munchies before. But it didn’t ebb, and after more than a few minutes lying in bed, staring up at a ceiling he couldn’t see in the dark and listening to the soft breathing of the man beside him, McCree decided that if he couldn’t sleep, then he might as well not be hungry.

Of course, it was almost impossible for him to move about without stirring Hanzo in some fashion; he apologized, but now he had a grumpy, sleepy request for tea, too.

And so McCree had felt around in the dark until he found the pair of jeans that had been discarded on the rug earlier in the night, shrugged into an equally fresh-from-the-floor shirt, and headed for the door. His slippers were in here somewhere too, but he didn’t feel like bothering; his socks would serve just fine.

He raked a hand through his hair as he entered the kitchen, just mildly cognizant of how disheveled he looked. At this hour, he was expecting only those people predisposed to relatively nocturnal habits (Angela and Winston, of the ones he reflexively noted, but Mei and Hana kept odd hours as well, amongst a few others. Morrison just melted in and out as he chose). Hana would most likely say something about his ragged appearance. Par for the course, he supposed; he just needed to grab himself a snack, boil some water for Hanzo, and he could retreat back to the dark security of his room.

Hana, however, was nowhere in sight. Instead was the oddest collection of people, and some of the first to retire upon arrival back at base. Well, taken _together_ the three of them were odd; two of them were just about shackled at the hip, so… there was that.  
  
Junkrat was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. He was also face down on said counter, arms hanging by his sides, and he seemed to be truly, deeply asleep. There may have been some soft snoring. He was in nothing but his usual dirty shorts, and it made the kid look even bonier than he usually did. That boy needed to eat nothing but chili and cornbread for three straight weeks, put some fat back on him, damn. He topped McCree’s height by four inches, and yet was almost fifty pounds lighter. In his drunker moments, McCree wondered if Junkrat could pull a Mary Poppins and just fly away with an umbrella and a stiff breeze. He kept that thought firmly to himself, because if Hana caught wind of it Morrison would find her and Lúcio flying poor Junkrat like a kite. And Junkrat would not dissuade them. His guardian might.

Speaking of, Roadhog was on the opposite side of the counter, making a pair of sandwiches with the leftover fried tofu that had made an appearance at dinner. His mask was discarded on a nearby table; it was almost strange to see him without it, but he figured that its removal was necessary for eating. He cast McCree a tired look as he entered, before returning his attention to the sheer amount of items placed on the counter; evidently, sleepy midnight munchies were striking everywhere. McCree had never figured out how a man who never touched meat and probably had the leanest diet other than Angela and Morrison was also the largest person in the base (the only person he didn’t outweigh was Winston, but he was a genetically modified gorilla, so that was to be expected). The complete and polar opposite of Junkrat, in both appearance and temperament. They balanced each other out, he supposed.

Next to Roadhog, one other person was also slapping together a sandwich. Other than Junkrat, who was still out cold, Zarya appeared to be far and away the sleepiest person in the kitchen. She didn’t even bother to look in McCree’s direction. Standing at the counter in nothing but a sports bra and bike shorts and clearly without a care about anyone’s opinion on the matter, she was also apparently the hungriest because _hot damn_ , he wasn’t even sure he could see a plate under there. That was, by the way, not a sandwich. A sandwich was something you could eat with your hands; this appeared to be just about every kind of meat from the fridge, plus what amounted to a small salad thrown on top, which she somehow seemed to expect to stay between those two flimsy slices of bread she had it all piled up on. Not that she paid it any mind at all, and McCree had to wonder if she was just doing it all by muscle memory. Evidently not, because every once in a while she would grunt and gesture vaguely to something at Roadhog’s end of the counter, which he would then pass without a word. The reverse happened as well, and all they would thank each other with, if anything, was a slight nod and a soft snort.

It was like watching a pair of horses have a conversation, and the mental image amused McCree greatly.

Sandwiches now made, with one scooted gently towards Junkrat, Roadhog began to put a few items back in the refrigerator. He gave a soft grunt and gestured to the entirety of the items on the counter before he did so, and Zarya merely set the bread and a bunch of bananas aside before canting her head with a snort that was apparently the Grunt Speak equivalent of “naw, I’m good.” Roadhog then looked at McCree. He held his hands up and shook his head, and Roadhog began to pack the food away; all McCree wanted was to raid the stash of pizza rolls from the freezer and his somehow-yet-undiscovered box of Pop-Tarts from the pantry, and he’d be good. Oh, and he still had to make Hanzo’s tea.

As McCree made his way around the counter, his eyes picked out something on the back of Roadhog’s neck. Right…there, he could see it when the big guy turned to continue refilling the fridge. There was a tattoo right at the nape of his neck, and relatively fresh (in comparison to the established art gallery that otherwise carpeted his skin). Was that a rat-faced bomb? He gave it as close an eye as he dared, sneaking peeks as he retrieved his pizza rolls from the freezer. It looked remarkably similar to the other little doodles that occasionally cropped up around the base. And since Lúcio didn’t generally draw on walls that weren’t his, and had a propensity for frogs instead of rats…

Roadhog had leaned against the counter to enjoy his sandwich, but not before he reached a hand out to gently prod Junkrat’s shoulder. He received hardly more than a sleepy groan in response. He prodded harder, giving one bony shoulder a firm squeeze until Junkrat raised his head. Kid looked like a damned zombie. He did, however, lay eyes on his sandwich, and with what looked like a monumental effort of will, he brought his arms up to the counter. Roadhog merely ruffled his scruffy hair with one massive hand, before returning his attention to his own food.

McCree killed a look well before it made it to his face; Roadhog wasn’t gentle with just about anything, ever. While he tolerated Junkrat’s daily loud carry-ons with a surprising amount of grace, this went far over and beyond that. Combined with the tattoo normally hidden under the straps for his mask, McCree was more than just a little suspect about how deep their relationship went. The kind of feeling he got when witnessing something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to see. Still, though, could be anything. All kinds of crazy shit came out of Australia, that joke had been around for a good hundred years, even more so since the explosion of the omnium. These two had made it out with nothing but each other (and a couple of rap sheets long enough to build a bridge to the moon); he could be standing witness to a deep friendship born of necessity. There was a coughing snort; Junkrat had apparently fallen asleep with his sandwich partway inside his mouth, and Roadhog spared another moment to nudge him awake again. He roused with a mumble, and just continued chewing. Roadhog mussed his hair again, and Junkrat leaned his head into the giant palm; it didn’t look like he was even sparing any energy to bother holding his own head up. Big guy tolerated it for a while, before removing his hand with a soft grunt. _Just a close friendship,_ yeah. McCree couldn’t even convince himself if it came with a bribe.

Nearby, Zarya had a hip resting against the counter, and it didn’t appear that she could give any fewer shits to the curious petting happening not even out of her reach. Also, how the hell was she taking bites out of that “sandwich?” McCree could put a single extra slice of tomato in a BLT and one bite would send all of the contents spilling back onto his plate or lap or floor; this woman had a whole buffet table between what must have been the two bravest slices of sourdough, and the whole thing magically stayed intact. It struck him that he was too old and sleepy and distracted for this.

Also, what the hell did the big girl have bread and a bunch of bananas for? If that shit was eventually going into sandwichzilla too…

As he was loading more than a few pizza rolls into the microwave, there was a thump and a wince from somewhere else in the kitchen. McCree shot looks at all the people he could see, who clearly had not moved an inch in the last few moments, before someone came stumbling out of the massive pantry on the other side of the kitchen. Just Lúcio, with the odd cadence to his bare feet of a man who had just jammed his foot into something hard and heavy and immensely painful (which sure explained the wincing). He blinked sleepily, clutching a jar of Nutella to his chest as if it was the most precious thing in the world. His hair was loose around his shoulders—and it was easy to forget how _long_ it really was—and he was wearing what McCree first thought was the most shapeless pink nightgown ever created. Where was his phone when he really needed it? Hana would pay in favors for this kind of blackmail.

It took McCree a moment to realize that he was wearing a shirt. Not _his_ shirt, oh no, it didn’t fit the kid at all, but someone else’s. A bright pink one that proudly invited everyone within sight of it to the gun show, and that McCree could distinctly remember being on someone else earlier that night at dinner.

Zarya made that shirt look tight. Lúcio made that shirt look like a flowing poncho.

Also, _it was two am and Lúcio was wearing Zarya’s shirt._ Which may explain why she, well, _wasn’t_. It explained a lot of things, actually.

McCree could not for the life of him hide the nearly painful face-splitting grin that twisted his mouth as Lúcio padded towards the counter. Zarya almost-blindly retrieved a knife from the drawer and handed it to him, handle first. She somehow managed to shift sandwichmountain to one hand when she did so. The kid was well into opening his jar of Nutella by the time he even noticed McCree leaning against the back counter by the microwave, grinning like a shark. This was too good to pass up. He came for snacks; he was gonna stay for the gossip.

Lúcio gave him a lazy wave, and began to slowly assemble his own sandwich, which was far and away the most modest of the four that McCree had seen this evening. A proper midnight snack; if he weren’t already invested in pizza rolls, he’d feel tempted towards some Nutella-banana-goodness, too. Somewhere at the other end of the counter, Junkrat gave another coughing snort. Roadhog flicked him a couple times until he roused. McCree ignored it in favor of removing his rolls from the microwave and coming around the counter to a stool. On his way past, he gave Lúcio a hearty clap on the shoulder. The kid shot him a quizzical look, which McCree met with a grin that was probably growing wider. He threw himself on the stool, and just stared pointedly at the tiny medic until Lúcio cocked a brow at him.

McCree made a show of looking him over. _Nice shirt._

Lúcio blinked, before glancing down at himself. His eyes widened, he shot a look at Zarya (still oblivious), stared back down at himself, and winced. _Well shit._

McCree crammed pizza rolls into his mouth in order to keep from laughing. Lúcio still noticed, and McCree shifted his gaze most deliberately to the giant woman standing next to the kid, entirely uncaring about what they were up to just off of her shoulder (and dear lord, how was that monster sandwich half gone already? Where? How!?). His smile turned conspiratory. _How the hell did that even happen?_

Lúcio gave a soft snort as he spread far more than a humble share of Nutella on some bread. _Don’t you wish you knew._

McCree put more pizza rolls in his mouth, smug. He did, because imagining Lúcio attempt to seduce a woman three times his size was the most amusing thing he’d encountered in quite a while. Boy had some game, no doubt, but Zarya was still…. A lot. In more ways than one. On the other hand, McCree didn’t rule out that the tryst was less the accumulation of the slow flirtation dance and not her just backing him into the nearest wall with a rough, “you’ll do, let’s go.”

Either way, it had ended here, with McCree bearing glorious witness to Lúcio standing in the kitchen in a pink “toga.” Someone above was looking out for him. He wondered if Hana knew; he doubted it, since Gibraltar was a churning cesspool of gossip, more than any high school on the planet, and nothing about these two had come down the pipe. At least, not with each other. There were betting pools, several of which McCree belonged to. He was a little disappointed to learn that he would clearly be getting his original ten bucks back, but heartened that no one else had won either. Damn, they had all been _way_ off the mark.

However, now he had a fresh pool to start. Yeah sure, it was cheating, but hey, cigarillos didn’t grow from trees. Neither did whiskey. Besides, he had to make some money back after Genji had robbed him in the Angela and Fareeha pool. Damned sneaky ninja, knew about stuff he shouldn’t.

Lúcio seemed to feel his conspiracy (not surprising, the kid saw emotions like the rest of them saw colors), and shot him a dry, tired glare. _Not a peep, old cowboy._

McCree leaned dangerously far back on his stool, arms over his chest. _Or what?_ Oh, yes, he was using this. Gossip meant favors in this place, and he was all for storing them away for later use.

There was a shift in the room, and McCree could suddenly feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A feeling twisted around in his gut, the same jittery sensation that he got when he had disappointed someone who’s opinion he gave a fuck about. Lúcio looked past his head, towards the door, and McCree was sure the grin that skipped across his face was the scariest the kid had ever worn. A terrible, carnivorous combination of glee and vindication and no small amount of smug elation. Holy shit what was going on behind his back—

Oh. Well. There went all his clout in this conversation. Standing in the doorway, looking _very distinctly_ peeved in the most acute way, was the disheveled, stunning man he had left half asleep on his bed. He suddenly recalled that he was supposed to bring back tea with him. God dammit, he forgot the tea! And the, y’know, “going back” part. He gave Hanzo a weak wave, which only prompted him to scowl harder. And Lúcio to grin wider.

McCree’s stomach sank. Wrapped around Hanzo’s shoulders was McCree’s red serape; he hugged it tightly to himself, and if he was wearing anything else underneath it, McCree couldn’t tell. He was also wearing McCree’s slippers.

Never mind, the universe hated him; his secret lover had just not-so-secretly shuffled into the kitchen wearing nothing but McCree’s own clothes. Karma was one hell of a bitch. Any other time, watching Hanzo stalk past him in just his serape, with his soft hair loose across his back and shoulders, would have made McCree stupidly happy. Now he just buried his face in the palm of his flesh hand, willing the fates to take him away right there.

Lúcio was loving it. With McCree’s conversational leverage well and truly broken, he quite openly shot a cheeky smile at Hanzo (who scowled at him) and McCree (who also scowled at him), and gave Zarya a nudge with his elbow. Girl blinked a couple times and looked near about to scowl at him too, and he canted his head in the archer’s direction. Hanzo walked past them both, determinedly on his way towards the stove, and Zarya turned her head to get a tired look. She snorted and shrugged, but then turned her head again, and McCree watched her gaze sharpen substantially as she finally took in exactly what Hanzo had decided to clothe himself with. He swallowed a groan as her lips twisted into a lopsided smirk, and for the first time this whole evening she actually _looked_ McCree in the face. And if he thought Lúcio’s grin was carnivorous, hers was borderline bloodthirsty (sometimes he wondered exactly where Winston found all these kids). Oh yeah, he was not going to hear the end of this until the day he died. The news would be out by dinner tomorrow night, if not sooner. He’d better go Hana-proof his door right now.

At least Hanzo was oblivious as he grumpily minded the teapot on the stove. More than that, the tea order seemed to have increased substantially, as Roadhog left his charge sleepily gumming his sandwich to a slow death in order to retrieve a teacup for himself. Lucky peaceful bastards. Like nothing was amiss.

Zarya tempered her grin only long enough to put her plate in the sink (and whenever that sandwich had gone from half-gone to what-sandwich, McCree would never know) and give Lúcio a soft squeeze to his shoulder that was allusive enough to blow away any lingering doubts that McCree may just have had. She gave a curt nod to Hanzo, and a grunt and a wave to Roadhog; both gestures were loosely returned. On her way past him, her grin returned full force, and she gave the cowboy a good, hard swat on the back that was just so full of cheek he knew he had to glare at her just on principle. Also, _ow_. But she hadn’t paused for a moment and was halfway out the door, so he merely settled for scowling at her back. Didn’t even have the decency to stay and let him fight for his dignity.

Lúcio, meanwhile, was leaning dramatically on the counter, happily munching away through bananas and Nutella, and thank the Lord for small mercies because it did not appear that the kid had his phone anywhere on him. Instead, however, they had reached some sort of stalemate; Lúcio happily, McCree not so much. The kid scooped his plate up into his arms (along with the whole jar of Nutella, and it was clear that the contents would not survive the night) and made to take his leave as well, but not before pinning McCree with a cocked brow and a smirk.  
  
_Talk, Lone Ranger, and your secret man-toy ain’t so secret._

And McCree could do little more than give him a huff and a dismissive wave. Had to take all the fun out of it. If Hanzo had just _stayed in bed…_

But his vague committal seemed satisfactory, and Lúcio gave him an otherwise friendly bump on the shoulder on his way out, leaving McCree to sulk with his now cold pizza rolls. He propped his chin on one hand, and resigned himself to watching Hanzo and Roadhog have the world’s weirdest tea party in the kitchen. As Hanzo moved around, with his hands largely full and clearly too sleepy to have too many fucks to give, the serape loosened around his shoulders. Well, God bless archer’s arms.

At least tonight wasn’t a _total_ bust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree is the only one who thinks his relationship with Hanzo is a secret. That man could make puppy eyes from across a continent; the whole base already knows. 
> 
> Grimcognito demands moar Roadrats fluff, so I will oblige as much as possible while I put Lúcio and Zarya through the wringer. For more on Roadhog's tattoo, you want to read her fic [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8034745/chapters/18400207). It's adorable. Also her Overwatch fic about [seagulls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7748950) because that shit is so funny I will pimp it out every day.


	2. Cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lúcio makes brigadeiro. They do not last long. Zarya is a giant tease.

It was by complete accident that Lúcio realized that the Gibraltar base was harboring the craftiest, most unsuspected chocolate fiend to have walked the earth.

Well, maybe less “crafty,” and more “Lúcio was gullible.” He believed the McCreeism for it was “putting the fox in charge of the henhouse.” Yikes.

Lúcio had endeavored to make brigadeiro; not just make it, but to make enough to fill the kitchen with it. No one in this base knew what he was talking about when he mentioned it, and that was just _heinous._ The problem was that it was difficult to keep the kitchen stocked with good food for longer than an hour; all it took was one nosy looky-loo and a text, and then the kitchen was full. If he wanted these to stay intact at all until he was done, he would need a very clever hiding spot. Or a guard. Or both.

While clever hiding spots were at a premium in the kitchen (mainly because they were already taken by other people, and it was a terrible idea to share spots in case your cohabiter spilled the beans), he did have a guard, of sorts. Aleksandra was alone at the kitchen table, fiddling idly with her tablet and slowly making her way through a cup of tea. She was down to eat pretty much anything, but if there was one thing she viciously restricted her intake of, it was sugar. Bacon? Sure. Potatoes? Sure. That bacon potato soup that Reinhardt made that looked like vomit but tasted like it was made by plump angels in a kitchen carved entirely of butter and heavy cream? You better leave her enough for thirds, or else. Cake buffet? Eh, maybe just a single, small piece. So if there was one person in this base that he trusted to leave a couple trays of chocolaty, sugary goodness unmolested, it was her (like right now, where she was perfectly happy demolishing both a bag of baby carrots and the last of the grapes from the fridge, and had only displayed mild curiosity as he had begun this project in the kitchen).

See also, the scariest guard he could have possibly acquired. He could list on his hands the amount of people willing to weasel something from her and he’d still have enough fingers left to play the guitar.

He stacked a couple trays on the table, well inside her reach; folks would be less willing to test their sticky fingers while their target was well within her striking distance. She stared at the trays, and looked up at him pointedly, eyebrow cocked, chin resting on her hand.

“So, I don’t trust anyone else on this base to guard these for anything, because they would just run giggling back to their room with them. Can you, like, make sure these stay intact until I’m done? Otherwise peeps are gonna poach as I’m makin’ ‘em and then half the base won’t get anything.”

All he received was a noncommittal grunt and dismissive wave in the affirmative, and she returned her attention to her tablet. At least, so it appeared; Lúcio had learned from experience that her peripheral vision was spot on, and her reflexes honed to match. She’d casually swat at the first couple grabby hands; she’d catch all the ones that came after. Combined with her apparent disinterest in the well-sprinkled or cacao-dusted brigadeiro (and that handful that were rolled in toffee bits, those wouldn’t last), he had the perfect sentinel.

He returned to the counter, settling his headphones back around his ears; give him some music, and he didn’t mind spending all day in the kitchen. It was… domestic, and surprisingly calming, which were two commodities that he was able to experience quite little of nowadays. He liked it. He shot another glance at Aleksandra’s broad back, and turned his music way up. It was still hours before dinner, but Lúcio wanted to have his project finished and cleaned up before whoever was on kitchen duty today came in and got to work.

It was a good twenty minutes into the next couple batches when Aleksandra rose from the table, leaving her tablet and cup behind. She rapped loudly on the counter to get his attention, and he spared a moment to pull his headphones away from his head.

“I’ll be back in five. You’ll have to watch your own… those things.” And she gave a lazy wave towards the trays on the table. He nodded and grinned, and she strode from the kitchen. Well, she’d be back; unless he was rushed by the food thieves that inhabited this base, he could defend his food himself until she returned.

And return she did, not three minutes later. Lúcio was pretty sure if it weren’t for the bright shock of pink hair, he never would have noticed her reenter, so engrossed was he in a combination of cooking and a head-banging jam that he _might_ feel in his neck a bit later. Ah well. Totally worth it.

His attention was soon drawn by some deliberate arm-waving from the table. He wiped his hands clean, settled his headphones around his neck, and rounded the counter. Aleksandra had not moved, nor had she removed her eyes from the trays on the table.

“Are these ones supposed to be missing?”

He frowned, and peered into the trays. Sure enough, about eight of the brigadeiro were gone. Poof! Disappeared. He looked closer, as if the brightly-sprinkled candy was any easier to see from a few centimeters nearer. No luck, the errant things never materialized. When? How? He’d been here the whole time! He didn’t _think_ anyone else came in. Probably. He had been jammin’ pretty hard, though. At least he knew who it wasn’t, as she shrugged and sat heavily back in her chair, and returned to her carrot sticks and grapes.

Seriously, though, trays of chocolate available, and she chose vegetables. The woman was committed.

His first, reflexive thought was that there were ninjas in this base, and he killed the notion immediately. They had two ninjas, and one did not need to eat, nor was he in the habit of stealing food for other people. His brother had a stick so far up his own ass that they’d have to pull it out a good couple feet before he’d let himself enjoy something like chocolate. His second thought was Hana, but she wouldn’t bother trying to be crafty; he’d just find her at the table, scooping brigadeiro into her mouth. She was also currently dispatched, and due back in later this evening. 76 was pretty stealthy, but he seemed to, erm, “enjoy” healthier fare like plain steamed broccoli and unseasoned chicken breast. He was also in a running battle with Hanzo over whose wooden ass-insert was larger and sharper.

And Lúcio suddenly realized that he would not be mad in the slightest if either of those two people had breezed through and helped themselves; if anyone here was in desperate need of chocolate-therapy, it was them. Damn. New self-appointed mission: make sure they eat three, each. Would do their poor, bitter old-man-souls some good.

He sighed. Well, it was alright. There were a good thirty-odd little chocolate balls per tray, he could easily replace eight. Gutsy thief, though, leaving only the little paper candy cups behind. Aleksandra was doing a pretty good job of both scrolling through her tablet and watching him, her expression somewhere between mildly curious and bored as fuck. Hopefully she was still down to sit on these for just a little while longer. He returned to the kitchen, and started rifling through the cabinets. He could have sworn he had seen the accompanying lids for these trays—ah, right there. The perfect foil, pun intended. Everyone who had tried to sneak goodies in the middle of the night as a kid knew it was almost impossible to remove the metal lids from the containers without making a stupid amount of noise. He brought them back to the table, slapped them on the tins, and pushed them towards Aleksandra. She snorted, cocked a brow at him, but pulled the containers the rest of the way towards herself. She put one tin on top of the other, propped her tablet on them both, and continued to crunch her way through what must have now amounted to a lethal amount of baby carrots.

Satisfied that his brigadeiro were safe again, he returned to the kitchen. Given the ingredients left, he wanted to see how many more batches he could manage to crank out. 

Turns out, he could still make a hell of a lot. He was now another hour in, and starting to run out of space to put them all. In the name of both space and presentation, he scooped up a couple handfuls of freshly-rolled chocolate and made for the table. Aleksandra was still flopped “protectively” over the tins. It looked like she had stalled out on the carrots and grapes, too. She gave him a sideways look as he approached. She looked almost… impatient. Probably just bored. Odd; usually if she found herself this wanting for things to do, she would head back down to the gym.

“Can you do me a favor and take the lid off of this one, right here? Yeah, on the top. I’m gonna put back the ones our mystery thief stole. Make everything look pretty again.” 

“Hmph, for these people? Decorative plating is a lost art in this base. They will not find time to admire anything before Lena and Hana run off with all of it.”

True, very true. Only Angela, Brigitte, Reinhardt, and Mei made any effort at all towards appearance when cooking (and Reinhardt’s tended heavily more towards “how much of a heart attack can I induce in people before they even eat the food?” The day Lúcio found a whole stick of butter jutting up out of his stew or whatever, he’d know it had gone too far).

He shrugged a shoulder, careful not to jostle his hands too much. He hadn’t dropped a single one of these things yet today, and he did not want to start now.

“Yeah, but it makes me feel better, so…”

She chuffed, but removed the lid anyways, and Lúcio put brigadeiro back into the empty little paper cups left behind. Satisfied that the hideous hole created by his mystery thief was again filled, he sauntered back to the kitchen.

“Can you put the lid back on, pretty please? Wanna keep the rest of ‘em intact, if I can.”

“Hn,” was the only response that he got, but as she had so far been a relatively diligent guard, he had little doubt that the chocolate would be swiftly covered again.

Good, because he still had about another four dozen of these things to make…

 

* * *

 

As suspected, it didn’t take long for his project to be discovered. Aleksandra had eventually left him to care for his brigadeiro on his own, and it seemed that no sooner had she left the kitchen that people began to trickle in. Some came in from missions, other from a variety of other trips, and a few were just bored, but the kitchen was generally the first place people gravitated towards when they were struck with any manner of free time; it was the rare day when the kitchen was empty. Food was often secondary to the company.

As such, Lúcio was not surprised in the least when he found himself both inundated with people, and being relieved of his brigadeiro. He was just getting into cleaning his various dishes when he heard the telltale pop of the only chronal accelerator found in the base, somewhere at his back. It was almost immediately drowned out as Reinhardt thundered in through the door, fresh out of the field and not looking an ounce less lively than when he left. Hana was not far behind him, looking noticeably less energetic. Lena was already in the kitchen, and picking curiously around the tins on the table.

“You’ve sure been busy while we were out, love.” If she was trying to be at all sneaky about pulling at the corner of a lid to take a peek inside, she was doing a terrible job. “Please tell me that whatever you made that caused the kitchen to smell like the inside of a candy store happens to be in these things.”

Lúcio wiped his hands clean, and came over to lean against a counter.

“Well, none of you have had brigadeiro _ever_ , which is just shameful, so I made some while you were out. There should enough for the entire base, but that means keeping your greasy paws out of there, Lena.”

She shot him a cheeky smile as she flipped the lid right off the first container.

“Hey! My paws are not greasy.” And she reached for the contents even as Lúcio flew towards the table. New record, whoo! And even without his skates! But really, he had to get her away from those. Ugh, fresh off of the drop ship, who knew where those hands had been in the last twenty-four hours?

“Ew, ew, get your nasty gloves out of there right now. _Lena!_ ”

She laughed, snatching up the entire tray and bolting. Of course, lunging did nothing; she just blinked right past him. She pressed the tray into Reinhardt’s hands as she ducked around him.

“Quick, take these, big guy!”

Oh, like this needed to be any harder. Lúcio let his arms drop to his sides as Reinhardt took a good look at what Lena had just handed him. A massive grin bloomed across his face, and Lúcio could feel his odds of rescuing his cooking from Reinhardt’s huge hands slipping swiftly past him. Or above him, as it were.

“Lonely for food from home? You must have been, to have put forth such monumental effort!” And Reinhardt removed a few brigadeiro from the tray. He was surprisingly ginger about it, given the size of his fingers. “I promise, we heartily appreciate your effort!”

“Reinhardt, buddy, you are killin’ me here.”

Lúcio heard Hana’s sharp ‘tsk.’ She was at the second tray on the counter, and was already filling a hand with chocolate.

“Don’t be such a fun-sucker, Lú. You made these to be eaten, so we’re eating them.”

“You’re not supposed to make a meal out of them! The point is that everyone in the base gets to try some.” Because, seriously, she did not really need to eat twelve at once. Her grip on her chocolately loot said otherwise.

“Mmmmm, their loss.” And she popped a couple into her mouth. “Wow, these are good.”

“Are they? Now I _really_ need some.” And Tracer blinked back across the room to accost the last tray of brigadeiro. Lúcio just plain stopped trying. It was clear that he had lost. Dammit, where was his ferocious guard when he needed her most?

Lena lifted the lid off the tray and stared. Yeah, his brigadeiro were that good, you could just look at them. Then she started laughing. It was the funny looking almost-smushed baby one, wasn’t it? He knew he should have just eaten that one…

“Ha! Well played, Lúcio, well played. But next time, I would put the decoy batch on top.”

Wait. What? He frowned.

“Decoy batch?”

“Yes, ‘m not blind. Did you think I would stick those in my mouth?”

“Lena, I didn’t make a decoy batch.”

She cocked a brow at him.

“Oh really? Then what do you call these?”

He’d call those brigadeiro, that’s what. To humor her, though, he walked over and took the tray.

And stared.

Correction, these were _not_ brigadeiro. Every one of his carefully crafted little chocolate balls were gone. In their places, settled into the little paper cups, were a combination of baby carrots and grapes. More accurately, multiple halves of baby carrots, like they had been bitten in two, and those shriveled, split, or slightly moldy grapes that were always found at the bottom of the bag that no one ever wanted to deal with.

All this time, wondering who his chocolate thief was, and he had just been handing them right to her. And she hadn’t left the room with anything in her hands, which meant that she had eaten _all thirty_ of them without his noticing, replaced them with baby carrots and reject raisins, and breezed right out the door on her way to the gym. Probably to work all the sugar off.

Lúcio sighed. Well, he could take that as a glowing compliment, at least. Chocolate so good, it broke diets. And drove people to thievery.

He was not looking forward to her cheeky grin when she strolled back in for dinner.

 

* * *

 

He really didn’t have to wait for dinner. Eventually, Reinhardt left the kitchen for his quarters, with Hana and Lena not long after. The three of them had only demolished _most_ of his brigadeiro (not counting the three dozen that had been pilfered earlier and replaced with vegetables). Lúcio “hid” what remained; really, he just placed them on a relatively clear shelf in the fridge, but hey. Out of sight, out of mind. Kinda. If he was careful, he may be able to ration the rest, and at least the rest of the base could taste some. He did, however, set aside a small box of them that was solely for Angela. Before this afternoon, he would have pegged her as the base’s resident chocolate fiend. Turns out she had some fierce competition for the title.

As he finished scrubbing the last of the dishware used in his project, he heard someone’s heavy steps stomp through the kitchen door.

Not quite loud enough to be Reinhardt.

Didn’t breathe enough like Darth Vader to be Roadhog.

Bipedal, so not Winston.

Sure enough, a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed Aleksandra’s proud return to the scene of her heist. And she _was_ proud; the instant his eyes met hers her grin twisted into something terribly sharp. He attempted to look as indignant as was possible, and it affected her none at all. If anything, she got more pleasure out of it.

“You have some nerve, skipping back in here like nothing happened.”

Her grin only widened.

“I was curious when you would find out.”

Hmph, more like she couldn’t wait; probably why she was back, just to prod.

“Apparently Lena was less than enthused about eating chewed baby carrots and squished grapes.” He turned his attention back to the dishes in the sink. “Gross, by the way.” 

“So Lena was here. Hana too?” Lúcio could hear her footsteps as she rounded the counter, stopping somewhere behind him. It was the kind of heavy, looming presence that didn’t need to be seen or heard, just felt.

He grunted in the affirmative.

“And Reinhardt. Between the three of them, I’m surprised they left me with anything.”

“So there are more left.” And her voice pitched in such a way as to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up, something both warm and cold to squirm around in his stomach, and to let him know that she was about to become an incredibly stubborn nuisance. He kept his gaze pinned firmly on the sink.

“Not for you! You had your…your _almost forty_ already.” And he heard her move again, _felt_ her move again, a similar sensation to feeling the air rush through a train tunnel. The skin on his arms prickled and he did his best to ignore it. “And really? I thought sugar was generally a no-go for you. Empty calories, and all that.”

Lúcio heard her rumbling chuff from right behind him as she brought both her hands to rest on the counter to either side of his waist. He squashed the tiny part of his mind that went ‘oh wow’ with the realization that he could practically feel her solidness through the counter. Really, it was nothing new; it just never got any less impressive.

“I will spare you the conversation of how carbohydrates are also sugar, and how one’s body needs them for energy, and only because I am going to attempt to weasel more chocolate out of you.” She relaxed, leaning her weight into his back, and resting her chin on top of his head. Goddamn if this woman wasn’t always ridiculously warm. “Also, you are largely right. It is best avoided. I am, however, allowed to cheat. All diet and no enjoyment makes Aleksandra grumpy and miserable.”

“Can’t have that, now can we?” His deadpan was both real and false at the same time. He’d never be able to manage that again.

She leaned a little harder into him.

“Hmph. If I have my choice, I’ll save my cheat days for a nice piece of chocolate and a good bottle of vodka.”

“Or, y’know, _forty_ nice pieces of chocolate…ow! Hey!” She had moved one hand to his waist, poking two fingers hard into his side. Flinching away did nothing, merely causing him to press his ribs up against her other forearm, pinning him between it and the fingers in his flank. And he had about as much of a chance at moving that arm as he did of caber tossing a telephone pole.

“You are in a terrible position to argue.” The fingers in his side didn’t leave, but she wrapped her other arm around his waist and leaned into him, hard, effectively pinning him between her mass and the steel countertop. He didn’t bother squirming; it would only encourage her. He elected for a Slightly Annoyed But Not Really sigh instead.

“I am in the best position to argue, because you ate almost a third of all my hard work by yourself, and because you need me intact if you ever want me to make it again.”

“Mm, I suppose.” And she eased her weight back off of him. Her grip on him slackened considerably, enough for him to pretend to scrub this bowl really hard. She had her arms around his middle still, but loosely, wrists resting on the counter’s edge and her chin now on his shoulder. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well, you didn’t need to eat the whole tray…”

If she was gonna be cheeky about this, so was he, and Lúcio got the pleasure of hearing her ‘tsk’ in his ear as she gave him a playfully admonishing swat to the hip.

“Not that. Please, I could have eaten the other tray you gave me as well. But after I ate the first few, I almost could not put those carrots back in my mouth.”

“What.”

He felt her shrug against his back.

“The switch from brigadeiro to carrots was so abrupt and awful, I thought I was going to cry. But I had to maintain the façade.”

Never mind the absurd and frankly highly amusing mental image that brought (“world class weightlifter cries over self-inflicted torture by baby carrots,” oh please), Lúcio turned his head slightly to give her a look.

“Seriously? Don’t give me that. You ripped a cannon off of it’s mountings and are now carrying it around like it’s a rifle. I’ve seen photos of your competition from the world tournament, and that woman from South Africa is _terrifying._ Your whole weight class? _Terrifying_. You have a scar on your temple that plainly tells how you avoided losing an eye, brain damage and/or death due to flying shrapnel. Don’t tell me ‘putting carrots back in my mouth after chocolate was hard’.”

She rolled her eyes hard at him, and yes, he did understand and recognize deliberate hyperbole when he heard it, but hell if he wasn’t going to give her a hard time. He made sure this was clear by meeting her stare with a sassy grin of his own. Aleksandra gave him a half-hearted ‘hmph,’ and settled her arms back around his middle.

“It was. Carrots are healthy. Chocolate makes me happy. These two things are not equal in enjoyment.” Her grip on his waist tightened. “With that in mind, where did you put the rest of them, hm?”

“But you finished all the carrots, other than the ones you baited my tray of brigadeiro with.”

“So brazen.” And her squeezing was making it awfully difficult to wash dishes. “You know what I want.”

“I also know that I am not going to give it to you.” Nope, not at all. She could do her worst. Really, all she had to do was open the fridge and they’d be right there, but if he could keep her attention anywhere else, he’d call it a win.

“Are you sure? I have not even made my offer yet.” One of her arms loosened its grip, but only so she could edge her fingers up under the hem of his shirt. Well crap. He was markedly less resistant to this manner of negotiation, especially as she gently dragged her warm fingertips along his stomach. She had her cheek against his ear, and she gave an idle hum as she teased at his skin. He could also feel her grinning hard against him, which meant that he had a sudden desire to be as recalcitrant about this as possible, actual inspirations be damned.

“No dice. I’m not done here yet.”

She gave an amused snort, and gestured lazily to the sink.

“You have been scrubbing that one bowl continuously for the last five minutes. I believe that it is clean.”

Damn. Thinly-veiled and spur of the moment fake chore discovered.

“Just wanna leave the place ready for the next person in the kitchen. Someone’s gotta make dinner.”

“McCree,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“McCree is on kitchen shift this evening.”

Lúcio smirked.

“You do not sound enthused.”

She gave a long sigh that was about as telling as anything else.

“It is not bad, his cooking, but…” and she grimaced, “he is highly enthusiastic about spices.”

Oh yes he was. Lúcio found it amazing. Aleksandra was noticeably less impressed, apparently, but the hell if that ever stopped her from eating it. Her stubbornness extended to many things; she wasn’t afraid of omnics, she wasn’t afraid of humans, animals, or forces of nature, and she sure as fuck wasn’t afraid of a bowl of chili, even if that chili would always manage to win the match in overtime.

“Aw, but his chili is _really_ good.” He grinned as Aleksandra groaned into his neck.

“I have never tasted lava before that day.”

He laughed, which did not at all cover the sound of someone’s loud heels and jingling spurs coming down the main hallway. He was whistling, too. Lúcio smirked, and finished rinsing his bowl.

“And speak of the devil. I love how the whole base can always hear him coming.”

“I will never know how that man’s specialty was covert ops,” she grunted, straightened, and gave Lúcio a hearty clap to the shoulder as she pushed away from him. Ah well, that was fun, while it lasted. “I’m going down to the range until dinner, unless you are willing to continue hearing my proposal.”

“Oh?” And his interest peaked right back up again. He dried his hands and turned to face her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned a shoulder against the fridge. She had no clue, and it was great.

“I am not rude enough to decline food, especially when it is hardly the worst in this base. It will, however, be far easier to tolerate that pepper-induced hell knowing that there is a chocolate reward at the end of my suffering.”

“Well, since you are gonna have to suffer through Jesse’s dinner with your soft taste buds,” and he nimbly sidestepped her swipe at him, grinning, “I guess that’s fair.” 

“Of course it is. Now move.”

No need to tell him twice. He made for the hallway, Aleksandra right on his heels, pausing only as McCree stepped into the kitchen. He shot him a cheery wave in greeting, and the cowboy tipped his hat at them both in passing. Clearly, even that took just slightly too long, and Lúcio could feel one of Aleksandra’s warm hands press insistently into the small of his back. Alrighty then, now he knew how this was going to go. He grinned and lengthened his stride.

They had just barely cleared the kitchen when Lúcio heard McCree’s loud, surprised grunt.  
  
“The hell did all this chocolate in ‘ere come from?”

The fridge. He had opened the damned fridge.

Oh, dear god, no. McCree, of all the times to just keep your mouth shut—

He was determined to keep going, and pretend like he hadn’t noticed a thing, but he could no longer hear Aleksandra’s heavy footsteps behind him. He turned and got to witness his whole plan shattering under the chill of that elated, borderline predatory grin skipping across her face. She turned hard on her heel and sprinted back towards the kitchen, “negotiation” now immediately forgotten, and it was damned impressive how quickly she could move while unencumbered and with the proper motivation. Lúcio was left alone in the hall, face buried firmly in his palm.

Well, _shit._

McCree fuckin’ _owed_ for this.


	3. Kiss Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zarya comes home. She has some new friends. Sleepy frog is sleepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this chapter was written almost a year before Zarya _finally_ got her own comic, so yeah.
> 
> Reading this requires grains of salt.

Aleksandra sighed as she approached the dark, discreet doorway leading into the massive, incredibly indiscreet rear wall of Watchpoint: Gibraltar (and “rear” was relative, as the true back of the base was a solid granite cliff). From the outside, the place looked dark and every bit as uninhabited as they wanted it to; she knew, from experience, that it was all a deliberate trick of the windows. Every light could be on inside, and no one would have a clue unless the current residents wanted them to. This was great for maintaining their clandestine operations; it was a bit of a pain when attempting to return under her own ability in the middle of the night. The only light she could see in the dark doorway was the single small, red indicator above the electronic door lock.

Of course, it was also almost three in the morning, so the odds of everyone on base being asleep was really quite high. Several of them had offered to pick her up at the airport, Lúcio included, but considering the estimated time of her arrival, she had declined. She was an adult; she’d handle her business herself.

Her away trip back home to Russia had spanned three weeks. Officially, she was doing a combination of “leave,” scouting the Russian front (Winston wisely took all media reports with a grain of salt; the reality was always much worse than whatever watered-down tripe managed to make it to the evening news), and retrieving a series of unique parts for her particle cannon. Torbjörn was able to replicate a wide variety of the bits and bolts that she managed to lose or damage during use, but fresh, unaltered components made for easier reverse engineering. Unofficially, to those people she bothered to share her personal business with, she was touching base with her family. She had promised to try, after all; they had no idea what she was doing in Gibraltar, other than “extended special operations,” which was not _quite_ a lie. They didn’t ask, and she didn’t elaborate, but she knew her parents worried, as all parents did, and she said she’d do her best to make it home for at least a short while.

Deeper than that, she had an appointment to keep. Only two people in Gibraltar knew of her more surreptitious motivation to head for home; Winston, whom she had told upon her original induction into this new Overwatch, and Soldier:76, once he made his way into the base and swiftly became the scientist’s primary field supervisor. It became much easier to pursue her preexisting obligations when she would not have to explain around chasing leads that did not always align with Overwatch mission goals. Indeed, more than once they had given her ample opening within operation parameters to pursue her own ends, however briefly.

Because Katya Volskaya was not known to be a patient woman. And Aleksandra had an assignment.

Due to the nature of Volskaya’s attacker, Aleksandra delivered her update in person. This was more frustrating than not, because she was very much empty handed, and it had been several months. She didn’t realize that she had clenched her fists all the way through that meeting until she found herself rubbing her palms in the hall.

While not patient, Volskaya was also realistic; this was a hacker who had managed to break one of the most secure encryption systems on the planet, came with two accomplices who assassinated more than a handful of Russian soldiers, and managed to skip out free. While the exact nature of the assailant’s demands were classified behind a strict “need to know” order and Volskaya’s iron glare, she had given Aleksandra a very good description. One surviving soldier was able to describe a second attacker with relative clarity before succumbing to his strange, decaying wounds in the hospital.

It had been some time in Overwatch before she had gotten a good look at Reaper. Unless there were other assassins around wielding a pair of shotguns and sporting a skull mask, hooded cloak and clawed gloves, he was a dead ringer. The whole “turns into smoke” part that she had first believed to be the hallucinations of a man rotting to death while clinging to life was a bit of a giveaway, too.

It stood to reason, then, that Volskaya’s attacker was either a part of, or a mercenary for, Talon. This was not an agency that Aleksandra had any previous experience with. Almost no one did. Fortunately for her, they were a long-standing opponent of Overwatch, and even the secret, fledgling group in Gibraltar was full of people with far more experience at tracking and neutralizing Talon movements than she ever could be, especially alone. Her own personal motivations and enthusiasm to their cause aside, they had assets (and that should speak volumes to what they had wielded in their prime; even broken and underground, and they had some impressive tech, and impressive _people_ , at their disposal).

They gave her resources and a means. She repaid it with her strength and ability. Volskaya, considering the difficulty of the task at hand, and the fact that she wanted this hunt to stay quiet until Aleksandra was close enough to her prey to shove her cannon down her throat, approved of her methods. The news of Overwatch’s sudden, if discreet, resurgence brought a small quirk to her brow, as well a few curious questions that Aleksandra managed to be diplomatically vague about (and she knew that this had not gone unnoticed), but Volskaya otherwise accepted what little progress she had made. This task would not be rushed. Done right, and with furious conviction, but not rushed. Sloppy work would tip the hacker off that she was being pursued, and she had found her way into Katya’s office once. They did not want to entertain a vengeful repeat.

In the end, she got her parts and was sent on her way. The remainder of her trip was spent with her ear to the ground—English turns of phrase were strange, but they worked—at the battle front, as well as shoving food into her face at her parents’ house (and similarly knocking out on their couch). Nothing too eventful, the Svyatogor were still holding the line against the omnium, but Aleksandra made a mental note to _encourage_ Winston to let her bring a team up here and give the crews some breathing space. She did not think it would be that difficult; while she knew he could not afford to play favorites with assignments, she also knew that the crisis in Russia was one of the points that had caused his fingers to twitch over into that Recall button. At least, so said Tracer. And Athena, for however trustworthy she believed the AI to be.

Speaking of, she was able to swallow the disdainful snort as she punched her access code into the key panel. She was well aware that her biometrics were read each time she put her fingers to a key, and the AI chirped a crisp greeting as she entered the base. Creepy thing; not omnic, but so similar to organic in its approach to the residents of the base (and Winston in particular) that it sometimes made her skin crawl. A part of her, however, was grudgingly grateful that it made a point of turning up the interior lights as she entered. And Athena had been built entirely by Winston, correct? Made it marginally less creepy than omnics for that fact alone, at least.

She gave a halfhearted grunt in response to the greeting, more out of reflex than anything else. Athena progressively turned the lights out and locked the doors behind her as she made her way through to the heart of the base, which gradually became less like sterile barracks and more like… what exactly would she call this? Lúcio, Lena, and Hana affectionately referred to it as “Winston’s Home for the Extraordinary, Crazy, and Extraordinarily Crazy.” She felt her lips quirk a little. They were not exactly _wrong…_ She stopped briefly at the arms lockers to deposit the large, hard-shelled container that held her particle cannon. It made traveling with it just slightly easier, but only just. A black carrying case the length of most people still garnered strange looks. There was not enough space in the locker for both it and her case of parts, so she kept the latter with her. Compared to her cannon, it was feather-light.

As she walked down the hall towards the branch of corridors that held the sleeping rooms, she noticed a light on in the room to her left. Apart from personal quarters, the two least sterile parts of the base were most certainly the rec room, and the kitchen. Again, they had Lúcio and Hana to thank, for they had taken pains to replace a lot of the old furniture that used reside inside, since “sitting on that couch for too long makes my ass go numb,” Hana’s words. And, of course, she needed the biggest screen available on the market. _Three_ of them. Between those, the karaoke machine, a smattering of game consoles, a small platoon of armchairs, and various other decorations on the walls (at least one of which was a cat poster), it was a comfortable place to be, especially when occupied. And Aleksandra did a mild double-take as she passed the open doorway.

It was occupied now. 

There was one large recliner, far older than the rest, which only a few people ever sat in. It was, however, the favorite of one person in particular, and he was in it currently. Aleksandra knocked politely on the doorframe as she poked her head in through the threshold, but it was largely just to be respectful. Soldier:76, despite his thinning, grey hair and occasional comment that he wasn’t as young as he used to be, was remarkably alert. Whether it was due to his visor, his own ability, or some combination of both, she didn’t know, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ask. 76 looked up at her from his book; she had no idea when she had started not really noticing his mask and visor, as opposed to seeing only the cold inexpression of it. At some point, it had just become as much a part of him as anything else. If she looked, he was still readable. Granted, most of his moods sat somewhere on the scale of Unapproachable to Indifferent, but still.

He leaned back in his chair as he regarded her. He was relaxed, and a relaxed 76 was not entirely unpleasant to be around. He had a dry, “seen all the shit” sense of humor that she could appreciate.

“You’re back.”

“I am.” And she leaned lightly against the doorframe. “You are awake.”

He shrugged a shoulder.

“I never could sleep much,” and he shifted minutely in his chair, book temporarily forgotten. “How’d it go?”

It was Aleksandra’s turn to shrug. It was in lieu of any number of more frustrated, less polite gestures.

“I was largely empty-handed, but Volskaya was… surprisingly merciful.”

She saw him quirk a brow above his mask.

“You were not entirely empty-handed. You know more now than when she dispatched you.”

She clicked her tongue and swallowed a sigh.

“When I say ‘empty-handed,’ I mean ‘without a head in a box to set on her desk.’”

76 gave a low snort that might have been mild amusement. That was a rare sound; good mood, indeed.

“Do not under estimate information. As your infiltrator has displayed, even a little can be quite powerful.” And whether he was referring to the supposed blackmail or something else entirely, Aleksandra was not sure. 76 canted his head, slightly. “And the rest?”

“I have Torbjörn’s parts.” She hefted the metal case as proof, such as it was. “The warfront is… holding, but I can prepare a debriefing later if you would like.” And something else reared up out of her memory, and she would feel remiss if she did not at least mention it in a timely manner. “She was interested, somewhat, in Overwatch’s revival from the ashes.”

An unreadable grunt from 76.

“I bet she was.”

Well, _that_ was readable. There was enough sarcasm in those four words that Aleksandra felt almost reflexively defensive.

“I do not believe she will compromise your position here.”

She could just about feel his gaze sharpen through that visor.

“Hmph, _our_ position here. The minute you walked through those doors the first time, you violated the Petras Act right along with the rest of us.” And there was nothing she could do but agree with that. She canted her head in concession. That may have been part of the reason that Volskaya did not pry very hard; if Aleksandra was eyes-deep in the revival of Overwatch, it would serve for the organization’s secret to remain intact; the PR storm that could result, especially if her presence here traced right back to Katya’s desk, could prove to be… highly problematic. 76, confident that his point had been made, relaxed again. “You should let Winston know. He may want to be proactive.”

“Yes sir.” That request was more that reasonable. She’d make that the first in a short list of reports she planned to write in the morning. Erm, later in the morning.

76 rolled his neck and shoulders, which created several audible pops. He closed his book and rose from his chair with a tired grunt, hitting the light switch on the wall on his way towards the door.

Did… did he just wait up for her? Was that the only reason that he was here? She couldn’t imagine why he would, really. Although, if she bought into the school of thought wholeheartedly embraced by both Tracer and McCree, 76 had himself a mild “father complex.” Sure, he could be slightly patronizing (or far-more-than-slightly patronizing, when he was at his absolute saltiest), but after a tour in the RDF, it was hardly anything that she had not encountered before. And, prickly demeanor aside, she really did believe he meant well by it. Lena took it several steps further. “Trust me, love, if he thought he could get away with it, he would ‘dad’ us all to death. I swear I heard him tell Hana to clean her room the other day. _Swear_.” Aleksandra did not believe this in the slightest. “And I’ll bet money right now, one of these days we’re going to find him cutting the crusts off our sandwiches and putting peeled apple slices in our field kits.” Honestly, what. The whole conversation that day had drawn McCree’s attention from all the way across the room. “Ya better believe he knows exactly who comes in ‘n out of this base at all hours of the night. I came in the _back-_ back way from the ice cream run last week. Old bastard still caught me. I’ll take a hint from Genji, next time, and try a window.”

That was… rather more realistic; keeping track of the foot traffic in and out of the Watchpoint was a good instinct to have, given that a violent intrusion had occurred not long before agents had begun arriving. It was a practical habit, if nothing else. And in light of this current engagement, she found herself believing it. If 76 was on it, then she considered this place safer because of it, nagging Dad-Habits be damned.

76 clapped her on the shoulder on his way past.

“Mei cooked dinner last night. There should still be leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

And Aleksandra did not bother trying to smother her grin at all. Dad, indeed.

She was hungry, and Mei’s cooking was _good_ , but what she really wanted right now was to swan dive face first into her pillow and not get up again until she absolutely had to. With that in mind, she shut off the last of the lights in the common space, and beat a hasty retreat to her quarters.

She could not unlock the door to her room fast enough.

As she set the container of spare parts down just inside of her door, it was immediately evident that someone had been in here while she was away. There was none of the stuffiness that came with entering a closed room that had been unoccupied for almost a month. Her bedside lamp was on, and there was a small collection of items that she could be quite positive were not present when she left. By far the most obvious was a small collection of stuffed animals that now adorned her bed (not to be confused with the stuffed animals she kept in various other parts of her room). Most prominent was a massive polar bear, seated upright on her pillows, with an absolutely precious face and shiny black eyes and the biggest claws she had seen on a stuffed animal, ever. They outsized even a few knives she owned. The bear itself was holding a few other animals; there was a beanbag cat on one shoulder, a floppy pink rabbit on the other, and on the bear’s head sat a round green frog with fat yellow cheeks.

She did _not_ squeal. She did _not_.

At least, not one that anyone could hear.

Any nearby dogs, though…

At any rate, now she knew who the trespassers were, and one of them had legitimate access to her quarters, although he had never bothered to use it when she was not present.

She was all prepared to dive headfirst into her new adorable, plush friends, BDUs and body armor be damned, but her eyes caught on something perched on her bedside table. Several somethings, really. One bottle, one box, and a sea of colorful sticky notes. The body of the bottle was instantly recognizable as “something containing alcohol,” confirmed once she picked it up and carefully turned it over in her hands, reading the label. It was whisky, and it did not look particularly cheap. There was a bright, cheerful note stuck to the back of the bottle. The letters were scribbled such that it took her already tired brain a moment to translate them.

  
  
_Because sometimes traveling sucks. –McCree_

 

In the privacy of her room, she didn’t bother hiding a slightly embarrassed smile. Really, the stuffed animals were far more than she expected to return to; this was just overkill. While left to their own devices, their opinions of “best way to get utterly smashed” differed, but Aleksandra would wholly admit that McCree had pretty excellent taste in alcohol (even if both Reinhardt and Angela could procure some dark beers that would knock most people on their asses). She set the bottle gently back on the table; she would have to make sure to thank him, and relatively promptly. Never mind that to do otherwise would just be rude, but she could just about feel her mother’s glare from here. She was taught better.

The small cardboard box was next, and she retrieved it from its spot next to the bottle of whiskey. There was a sticky note attached to it, too, in a much neater, crisper penmanship that McCree’s scrawl.

  
  
_For when you need to recover from this idiot’s terrible choice of beverages._

_\--Hanzo_

 

Aleksandra’s grin got wider; she could guess what was in the box now, and she was not disappointed. Inside there were four different kinds of loose-leaf tea, and even without putting her nose in the box they smelt absolutely _divine_. She put her nose in the box anyways. Idle conversation about where Hanzo procured his tea from had led to the conclusion that it was both difficult to find (read, only a handful of suppliers) and relatively expensive. If McCree was to be believed, cheap tea made Hanzo want to cry.

From the box, the sticky notes began to form a river that crossed the length of her table. Side by side, the difference between McCree and Hanzo’s handwriting was a joke all by itself, never mind what was actually written.

_Hey, now, don’t be knocking what you haven’t bothered to try. -M  
_

_You will never get me to put that demon-sweat into my mouth. -H_

“Demon-sweat?” When describing alcohol, that could just as likely mean it was terrible as much as _awesome_.

_Stronger than sake, that’s for damned sure. Get you proper drunk._

_Yes. That is the problem._

From here, the notes exploded, and at least two more separate scrawls joined the conversation. She didn’t need signatures to figure out who was who.

 _Aren’t you both adults? Can’t you have this conversation like normal people, instead of_ —and the sentence ran onto an adjoining note— _scraps of paper, like, I dunno, whatever the hell this is?_

_Whoa, hypocrisy alert. And don’t you dare stop them, Lena. This is hilarious._

And one set of handwriting, which she definitely recognized. Also in his usual tiny script, enough to both fit on a single note and force her to squint.

_OMG, is this how we talk now? Everyone out of Zarya’s room. None of you are helpful at all._

The colorful paper conversation continued right on down the side of the table, even onto one of the legs. She was far and away too tired to follow it all currently, but rather looked forward to doing so in the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever she got out of bed next.

Speaking of such, Aleksandra didn’t bother to disrobe in the slightest before throwing herself face-first onto her bed. It had been far too long since she had seen a proper bed, and even with her body armor encased around her, just being able to stretch herself out got her pretty damned close to Nirvana. She signed into the linens. Ooooh… and her sheets had all been freshly washed, too. She buried her face in her pillow, throwing an arm around the giant bear and squeezing hard. She had to thank him for this. All of them, really, because he had clearly had help, but Lúcio in particular. He was the only one who could access her room codes without her present, and without an emergency fallback code from either Angela or Athena. And neither of them had any particular interest in getting into her space, regardless. Tomorrow, though, when he was awake. And she was awake. Ugh, it had to be going on four in the morning—

She turned her head to bury it into her new bear, and she felt something fall gently against her shoulder. She felt around blindly until her fingers were able to grab a hold of something round and soft. She dragged it in front of her face to see it, absolutely loathe to open her eyes for just about anything.

The green and yellow frog. God dammit, if it wasn’t almost painfully adorable. She had a powerful urge to crush the tiny thing to her chest, and just fall asleep that way. She almost did, before turning over the hand she had holding the thing. She was still wearing her gloves. She was still fully clothed, honestly. And if she was going have to rise long enough to shed her attire anyways… why not go for the real thing?

He’d be warm. And comfortable. And he could sleep through anything, holy shit, he’d never even hear her come in. She wouldn’t have to disturb him in the slightest. She sighed, and closed her eyes. Or she could just stay right here in her own bed, not get up, and squeezle some lovely stuffed animals. Fully clothed.

It was with the greatest force of will that Aleksandra shoved herself up and off of her bed, shut the lights, and broke into a brisk walk down the hall, towards the adjacent corridor of dorms.

His door could be seen from quite a ways away, what with the frame decorated with all manner of posters, stickers, and anything else short of paint and permanent glue (the door itself was clear, since it had quickly been discovered that the act of sliding into the walls did not play nice with most decorations). His was not the only one, but his was certainly the most loudly colored in this corridor. It took her a few moments, through a month’s disuse and a powerful desire for sleep, for Aleksandra to properly remember the code. The biometrics confirmed her access, and she was in.

His lights were out, but the room was still subtly illuminated by the two massive speakers in either corner, the distinctive rings around the cones glowing an oddly relaxing shade of green as they pulsed out some slow, soft music that made her rather partial to just curling up and going to sleep right where she stood.

If he ever learned how to do with visuals what he could do with music, Lúcio was going to be a right menace. The world’s sweetest, gentlest menace, but he’d be borderline unstoppable.

The aforementioned medic was out cold in bed, face down, his thick mane of hair tumbling out from under the blankets and over his pillows. He didn’t stir in the slightest as the door slid shut and locked behind her. Aleksandra swallowed an amused snort; Lúcio could sleep anywhere, never mind noise or activity or atmosphere. When he was of a mind to catch a wink, he just needed a semi-peaceful corner somewhere and he’d be out. She enjoyed an afternoon nap as much as the next person, but his ability to simply will himself into slumber was rather enviable.

Aleksandra started doffing off her body armor the minute the door was securely locked. She dropped it onto the floor as quietly as possible, but otherwise left it where it fell; she’d pick it up in the morning. She sat gently on the mattress; not that it ended up mattering, Lúcio’s breathing didn’t even hitch. With her chest and back plates removed and her gloves discarded somewhere in the darkness between the door and the bed, Aleksandra began the process of removing her leg guards and boots. Every strap and zipper loosened made her feel lighter than she had in _hours_. Forget noon, she wasn’t going to wake back up until dinner tomorrow… 

“…you’re back.” 

And Aleksandra _almost_ jumped when she felt a warm hand come to rest against her side. She turned enough to catch Lúcio just peeking out at her from under the covers. She hadn’t even felt him move. Well, there went all her supposed stealth, damn.

“I am.” And this conversation was certainly familiar. “Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“’s okay.” He stirred a little, pushing his head further out of the covers. “Did you just get in?”

“Yes.”

“Flights at asscrack o’clock suck.” Lúcio rolled over onto his back and stretched, freeing part of his upper body from the blankets, and he left his arms resting up around his head. She heard his sudden, soft intake of breath, voice suddenly very hopeful. “Did you see your room, yet?”

“Yes.” Aleksandra turned to lean over him, resting her forearms to either side of his shoulders. She tried to be at least a little mindful of her weight, but she must have not been doing all that great a job; she felt him grunt and squirm slightly underneath her. Ooops. “Thank you. You outdid yourself.”

He shrugged lazily.

“It was originally a lot more modest an idea, but Hana blabbed and then we added a couple of people…” He clicked his tongue and brought a hand down to his face. “Aw, crap. Ignore the sticky notes. All of them.”

Aleksandra found herself grinning. It was far too late for that.

“Somehow, I was not at all surprised to find such an exchange on my table.”

“You’re just lucky that Hanzo put up a vigorous fight when McCree looked at all the notes and then wanted to add confetti to the decorations.”

Yes, _that_ was surely over-the-top, but her response to him was to simply roll a shoulder.

“Could be worse. Could be glitter.”

“Heh, the herpes of art supplies. You’d never stop finding it in your stuff, no matter how you cleaned.” Lúcio squirmed and stretched his arms again, stifling a yawn. Despite the easy smile, it looked—and sounded—very much to Aleksandra like he was having significant trouble keeping his eyes open. She let her hands move, palming his cheek with one and idly stroking his jaw with the other. Lúcio turned his head to nuzzle against her hand and gave a soft, low sigh that was about as close to a purr as a human throat could get. A very tired purr.

“Go back to sleep.” She moved to pull away from him, but he brought his hands down from above his head to rest them on her shoulders.

“I will. I’m just waiting for you.”

“That has hardly stopped you before.”

“Mm.” His fingers were not idle on her shoulders, and he slipped a thumb up under one of the thick straps of her undershirt. His other hand had moved down to trace along her collarbone, and she felt herself swallow simply to feel the light pressure of his fingers against her throat. He took a hint, and brought his hand up to lay it along the back of her neck. “I missed you, while you were gone.”

And her heart did some manner of strange, fluttery dance inside her chest that she dared not examine further.

Aleksandra let her head dip a little under the pressure of his hand on her neck, and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss into his lips. He shifted underneath her again.

“I missed you, too.”

She meant the next kiss to be as innocent as the last one, but Lúcio was nice and warm beneath her, and his lips softened under hers. She was tired and it was dark in here and that slow, syrupy music he had playing was gradually turning her brain into a relaxed pile of mush. She moved her hand from his cheek to the nape of his neck, burying her fingers in his thick hair, and pulling him more firmly against her. He gave another of those throaty purrs against her mouth, and wound his arms around her neck. She eased a little more weight onto her arms, bringing her mouth down harder onto his. He arched his back as he tightened his hold around her neck, and when he pulled back a little to gasp for breath she advanced, taking advantage of his parted lips to deepen the kiss. He did not resist her. She felt a growl bubble up out of her own throat as she swept his mouth, soft and warm and sweet and he always tasted like something she couldn’t quite place. His grasped at her back, fingers digging lightly into the fabric of her shirt. She was tempted to start squeezing him, just to feel him squirm underneath her.

She finally pulled back to let him up for air, but not before giving his lower lip a gentle nip with her teeth. He relaxed against his pillows, but did not loosen his grip around her neck. Even in the dark, she could see him grin.

“Goddess, if you want anything more outta me, you’re gonna to have to gimme a moment to wake up first.”

Well, this was certainly not going in the particular direction that she had hoped, and it did not take much, even through the exhausted haze of her brain, to realize that most of it was really her own fault. She pulled back, untangling his arms from her neck as she did so.

“Tsk, I want you to sleep! I was not supposed to wake you in the first place.”

“Oh Lúcio, I want you to sleep!” and he clasped his hands together as he used probably the most terrible approximation of her voice that she had ever been privy to. “Here, let me passionately kiss you awake and talk to you!”

If she had had the energy available, she would have picked up one of his pillows and swat him with it. As it was, any recourse she could think of now would only make things worse. See also, still all her own fault.

“Hmph, just move over. _I_ would like to sleep, if nothing else.” And she returned to shedding her clothing with renewed purpose. He snickered, but rolled a couple times to give her space. Leg plates, boots, and fatigues all went the same way as her other gear, namely in a messy pile on the floor. She could not be bothered to think about it now.

“You’re a tease, you know,” he mumbled sleepily into a pillow.

“Mph.” 

“No denial?”

“No.” But she had every intention of making it up to him, particularly tomorrow when she would not be leaving this bed for any reason that wasn’t food or the world coming to an end. 

Well, it was his room; he could also just kick her out, but she had plans to make that outcome highly unlikely.

As predicted, the space in between his sheets was wonderfully warm. She had never figured out how a man his size generated so much heat, but she wouldn’t question it too hard. Especially not when he rolled back in towards her once she settled, throwing an arm around her waist. He pressed himself as close as he was able, face buried in her neck, and she could feel his lashes tickle against her skin. She rested her head against his, squeezing him against her, and if she had been of a mind to count the moments, it took only a scant few before his breathing began to even back out. Damn, that had to be a record, for sure.

She was not far behind, safely back inside a base filled floor to ceiling with friends of dubious sanity, one old man who seemed to enjoy pretending to run the world’s most dangerous kindergarten, and her warm, sweet lover whom even while fast asleep was currently doing a pretty good impersonation of a limpet.

She didn’t mind in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full prompt was 'kiss hello/goodbye,' and this is what came out. In my typical style, it took me over 3k words to even get to the gritty of the chapter. Ah well. Brevity was never quite my strong suit.
> 
> Heheheheheh, Zarya wishes that Athena is that simple an AI. My head canon is that she is the last of the non-dormant, not-buying-the-genocide-hype of the omnium God programs. Winston is aware, and he'll never tell. ;)
> 
> My lovely friend has looked this over for mistakes, but I generally manage to fark up spelling/grammar/tenses regardless of her heroic efforts. I'll purge what I manage to find. XD


	4. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lúcio watches the rain come down. He has company. The rest of the base gets drunk.

He was supposed to go to the beach today.

Really, it was meant to be a joint venture, because it apparently took a whole base full of adults to realize that they were right on the water, had access to a private beach (really a long strip of sand next to the water freight dock, but it counted), and that no one had utilized the Rock’s mild weather to any real capacity. This was going to be changed. Lena and Hana were all in. Aleksandra too, and it was her that quickly made McCree a convert when she made it clear that a sizable portion of the base’s alcohol would be briefly relocating with them to the beach in a cooler. Junkrat had never actually been swimming _in_ the ocean, and since he was in, so was Roadhog. Reinhardt and Torbjörn were determined to teach Brigitte how to fish; she was somewhat less determined to learn. Most everyone else had neither strong convictions for or against, except for Hanzo (who was not really expected to take well to a socializing beach party), Winston (who hardly left his lab, but was not entirely against the whole enterprise, as he heartily encouraged any resulting team bonding), and Soldier:76 (who was a grouchy old man and didn’t like anything that wasn’t solitude, tar-black coffee and shooting at Reaper). Hence towels were readied, swimsuits were unearthed, purchased or improvised, and Lena brushed up on her ability to mix drinks. Lúcio didn’t know why; she was pretty damned good at that already, and Aleksandra and McCree would happily imbibe anything above twenty percent.

No one had bothered to check the weather (and Mei was currently off-base, so she was excused from correcting their failure).

The day didn’t even give them a chance to gather their things; Lúcio woke to rain, but all reports from people who stumbled out of bed at an hour earlier than “lunch for breakfast” confirmed that it had been pouring since at least six this morning. Kind of a bummer, for sure, but it wasn’t so bad. Besides, with all the pent up energy now trapped inside the base, there was a high probability of a booze-soaked karaoke night for the ages.

And, really, Lúcio was rather fond of the rain, too.

He was seated out on one of the decks, firmly under the cover of the floor level above him, on the old outdoor furniture that someone had salvaged and cleaned; the porch couch had held up surprisingly well. Comfortable and dry, he elected to stay right where he was, and just watch the storm roll over them.

It was interesting, watching the wind and rain whip through the Strait; Morocco had all but disappeared, and if he didn’t know any better it was convincing enough to assume that the only thing off of their rocky coast was ocean. He could hear the waves slapping hard against the foot of the base, and the rain filled in all the other sounds. Every so often there would be a low rumble of thunder. It was nice, enough so that his headphones sat on the couch next to him, largely forgotten.

With a base harboring as many active people as it did, he was under no illusion that he would be alone for long. He wasn’t sure how long it took, but he eventually heard the door to the deck slide open behind him, followed by someone’s heavy, deliberate footsteps. The gait of the stride was just distinct enough to tip him off to the owner before he felt someone bend over the back of the couch, resting their forearms on his shoulders. If the sheer girth hadn’t been a dead giveaway, the immaculate pink nails and angular black half-sleeve tattooed up the left arm were unmistakable.

Aleksandra loosely laced her fingers together, and Lúcio grinned as he felt her lean over him.

“I did not think you would be this upset about some rain.”

Is that why she thought he was out here? Please. Rain happened, and it was hardly enough to stop him from enjoying himself.

“I’m not upset.” He shifted slightly against the back of the couch; even though she was still supporting most of her own weight, the arms on his shoulders were _heavy_. “Quite the opposite.”

“Hm?”

Lúcio allowed his head to fall back against her shoulder, which had the added bonus of letting him look up at her.  
  
“I like it out here. The beach was gonna be fun, but this is relaxing in it’s own way.” And in Overwatch, as he was discovering, one took advantage of any leisure time one could get. “I’ve always kinda enjoyed storms, too.”

Aleksandra gave a thoughtful hum as she rested her head against his. Her arms were still fastened slackly in front of him, but he did hope that she eventually took his squirming as a subtle hint to ease off of his shoulders, just a little. So far, it had been firmly the opposite; she seemed to be relaxing into him more the longer she lingered.

“I always considered you to be an endless sunshine sort of man.”

Lúcio made an attempt to shrug. He hoped she felt it, because it sure didn’t feel like his shoulders moved an inch.

“Yeah, I suppose, but the sunshine doesn’t _sound_ like anything.”

She gave a soft snort, and finally removed her forearms from atop his shoulders; he resisted the urge to rub them immediately. Instead, she draped herself lazily over the back of the couch, stretching her arms to let her hands dangle off the front of the cushions.

“And now I feel somewhat foolish, because _of course_ you would put a high priority on what the rain _sounds_ like.”

Lúcio just grinned.

“Wasn’t that you a couple months back, on that mission to London, who said that you never quite sleep as hard as when it’s raining outside?”

A languid mumble of acknowledgement.

“It was. I will own it.”

Lúcio could confirm it, too; the woman had been out like a light the moment she had turned in, never mind the noise that the rest of them made, and she was normally a somewhat light sleeper. The world could have cracked in half, and she might not have ceased snoring softly into her pillow.

They were silent for a while, to the point that Lúcio almost thought that Aleksandra had fallen asleep where she was hung over the couch, sliding slowly into the cushions on the bench. Eventually she decided that position was uncomfortable, and she pushed herself back upright with a grunt. She didn’t remain up for long, walking around to sag back into the couch again, resting her head against his shoulder. Even with the side of his face being lightweight assaulted by pink hair, Lúcio just leaned right back into her.

If possible, the ferocity of the rain had increased. It came in driving sheets now; Lúcio couldn’t even see the ocean below them anymore. Every so often there was a flash of lightning, now close enough that the thunder was less a low rumble and instead the occasional sharp crack. 

Hm, kinda like the wet weather back home. It sure wasn’t a monsoon, but he’d give it an ‘A’ for effort. This train of thought suddenly spawned another. 

“Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Does the snow sound like anything? Aside from when you walk through it.” He leaned his head against the back of the couch. “I can’t actually imagine the sound of snow falling.”

Aleksandra made a quiet, thoughtful sound against his shoulder. He didn’t rush her through the silence.

“I do not think I have really ever actually thought about it.” She shifted slightly, pressing more of her weight up against him. Still far more comfortable than supporting the bulk of her on top of his shoulders. “But yes, you can hear it. It is much more subtle than rain. More muffled. Even when it comes down really hard, everything just feels, or sounds… thicker? It’s hard to explain in English.” She idly tapped her knee in what appeared to be slight irritation. “I would say that it almost feels like snow swallows sound, but that sounds stupid even as I say it.”

“Hey, it makes sense to me. I’d invite you to attempt it again in Russian, but I cannot guarantee I’ll understand any more of it.”

He heard her amused snort, and she gave him a gentle swat to his stomach.

“Or any of it, period.”

He put a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“Hey now! Thanks to you, I’ve got a pretty sizable array of curse words in Russian.”

An actual laugh out of her, this time, and she rubbed a hand down her face.

“I seem to have done an awful thing.” Not that it appeared to be truly bothering her much at all. They had had a similar discussion before; some of the first words picked up in a new language? All manner of cursing, plus at least one way of asking for directions to the nearest bathroom or bar. Lúcio suddenly felt her stiffen, lifting her head from his shoulder. “Atch, and I have allowed you to distract me—“

“I am pretty distracting.” And boy was it tempting to throw himself across her lap in the most theatric way possible. 

She gave him a playful shove that had it not been playful probably would have flattened him against the couch. He went limp under the pressure of it, splaying himself dramatically across the cushions. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Hush. I came up here to see if you wanted anything to drink.”

“You’ve been up here for, like, ten, maybe fifteen minutes!”

“And I was distracted.” And that was said with enough equal parts deadpan and sultry that Lúcio had absolutely no idea how the rest of his day might go. Not that they had so far done anything more than just sit on the couch, but they had managed to do far more with far less before. “McCree and Lena are mixing drinks down in the lounge. They figured that if we are not going to drink them on the beach, then there is no reason for us to just not drink them here.”

Never mind that it took her just about forever to tell him, but that otherwise sounded exactly like something that would come to pass in this base. Party cancelled? We still own the booze, no reason not to drink it. He sat back up slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“We are all going to be cratered by dinner, aren’t we?”

“That is the goal.” Aleksandra rose from the couch with a grunt. She made it all the way back to the door before throwing a look at him over her shoulder. “Shall I take that as a yes?”

“Yeah. Just surprise me with whatever.” He made a face, which coincided with some manner of horrific grin that was slithering its way across her face. “ _Not_ straight vodka. Or Everclear. _Definitely_ not straight Everclear. I do not want my liver pickled by the likes of your iron taste buds.”

“You are no fun.”

 

* * *

  

It did not take Aleksandra long to return, and she sat back on the couch with a decent bit more care than she had the last time. She held a tall glass out to him as she did so.

“Here.”

“What is this?” Regardless of what was actually in here, this was rather large for a drink. Someone downstairs was trying to mess him up all in one go.

“I do not remember what Lena called it, but she said that you mentioned it to her once, and told her what was in it, so now she has made one. She wants to know what you think." 

Whatever is was, it was served over ice. Other than alcohol, there was quite a fair amount of pulverized strawberry floating around, never mind a whole plastic skewer’s worth of diced fruit submerged in it. Clearly someone downstairs was already going a little crazy with the garnishing, because there was also more than a little mint, a colorful paper umbrella, and a crazy straw bobbing happily along.

“It looks like a caipifruta.” If a caipifruita had gotten into a fight with a produce counter and lost. 

“There, that is it.”

Other than the incredibly judicious license taken with fruit, Lúcio would recognize one of these anywhere. His first sip was not at all disappointing; sweet and cold, and with enough bite on the back to remind him that it was still very much alcoholic. The kind of thing one could get drunk off of real quick, if not careful. He was not being careful.

“It’s good. She made it strong. I wonder where she picked up the cachaça for this.” And it was cachaça, and not rum or vodka. He could taste it. Almost no one else had even _heard_ of cachaça before he arrived, which was just about criminal, never mind knowing where to acquire some. “Wait…”

Aleksandra smirked sideways at him from around the lip of her own glass, and nodded. 

“She raided your stash.”

“Dammit!” 

That set her to laughing, and she slapped his thigh in amusement.

“I told you that place behind the rice bags was a shit hiding spot.”

“We have, like, a hundred pounds of rice in there!”

“And the way we go through it all, someone was bound to find out.”

“Tsk.” Ugh, assuming there was any left, he now needed to store several bottles of liqueur in a new, stealthier space. He didn’t really want to store it in his room (too far from the impromptu parties!), but it was looking like he would have to. The inconvenience of walking to retrieve it would outweigh the alternative of just plain not having any. Oh well. Lúcio then gestured to her drink, something deceptively clear as water, aside from another skewer of fruit. “And you? What are you having?” 

Aleksandra shrugged.

“What do you think?”

Of course. If it couldn’t mess up a bear, she didn’t consider it a real drink. Lúcio liked a bit more flavor to his beverages aside from burning. Still, watching her sip straight vodka from around garnishments similar to what he got was enough to make him smile. 

“The colorful umbrella and sliced fruit take the badass-ness out of it a little.” He desperately wished they had given her a crazy straw, too.

She sighed. It was resigned, but not entirely put out. No doubt she’d be happily eating that fruit off the skewer by the end of that glass anyways.

“They would not allow me to leave without them. There isn’t currently _any_ drink leaving the ‘bar’ without resembling a particularly alcoholic fruit salad. You should have seen Torbjörn’s face when they handed him his stein of beer.” Her lips twisted back into a smirk. “They are also, already, very drunk.”

And that, of course, surprised absolutely nobody. Lúcio was almost tempted to make his way back downstairs, just to watch Lena and McCree drunkenly attempt to mix cocktails (which would gradually devolve from ‘mixing’ to just pouring various bottles together and downing the results). But he was really very comfortable right here, and watching everyone stumble through dinner later would be fun enough. Who was on kitchen shift tonight? Reinhardt? Oh yes, please. If he was of sound enough mind himself when he showed up, he’d have to remember to take some video.

“Ah well. Cheers.” There was the satisfying, solid sound of glass on glass, and Lúcio took a nice long draw through his crazy straw. It was just that kind of day.

Aleksandra slung an arm over the back of the couch, and yeah, no, Lúcio was staying right here, thanks. He tucked himself up against her side, and she let her arm fall down across his shoulders. She was warm and his drink was cold but it was well on its way towards warming him up and fuzzying his brain, too. He let his head fall against her shoulder, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d be asleep not long after reaching the bottom of this glass. He felt her thread her fingers up through his hair to tease at his ponytail, and soon she was gently tugging his locks free of their bindings, letting the whole mess of it fall around his shoulders, with his hair tie now securely around her wrist. He didn’t mind, especially as long as she kept up the petting.

If this was how all of his rain days were destined to turn out, he wouldn’t argue in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was originally supposed to be the obligatory 'Beach' prompt chapter, and it has been duly hijacked. I'm so sorry, my friend; I know this was not at all what she wanted, but alas. I'll do a proper waterside fun chapter later. :D
> 
> I find that Everclear is nasty and is to be avoided. There are much tastier things to mix into cocktails.


	5. Injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zarya takes a hit and trips over her pride, Roadhog lends a hand, and Lúcio is done with all the nonsense.

This was not at all how Aleksandra hoped her day would go.

Sure, she had made getting shot at her livelihood for the past several years, but it had been quite a while since she’d eaten lead as directly as she just had. She gasped through the sharp pain currently burning through her abdomen. Her armor could shrug off a lot of hits, especially when charged by her cannon, but the plating was not entirely impenetrable. It was hard to tell right now, as she was currently doing far more coughing than breathing, but she sure hoped her armor had taken the brunt of the hit, and not her flesh. When her vision finally stopped swimming—or, at least, swam _less_ —she could see that she had at least managed to neutralize her opponent. Even through the pain, it was hard not to smirk; her cannon was the kind of weapon that either missed or maimed. There were no glancing blows with anything that erupted from the muzzle.

At least she had somehow managed to aim when she got hit. Or had she pulled the trigger before registering the hit? Bah, her opponent was still smoking on the ground, so whichever.

Aleksandra planted the muzzle of her cannon on the ground, leaned against it, and ran a free hand over her stomach. Oh yes, even without seeing it, she could feel the crack in plating. More than just the hard, sharp edges of the distorted material, she could feel the occasional spark from the electronics that synchronized with her cannon. There was also something warm and sticky there that she was pretty sure was blood. A quick check of her hand confirmed it. Well, wouldn’t be the first time. And she was still standing, so hopefully she wasn’t as injured as she felt. As she straightened, gritting her teeth hard through a gasp as a whole lot of her innards sharply protested any movement in her core, she sure felt pretty injured.

As she moved, the warm wetness at her stomach began to spread along the inside of her armor. She ignored it; she didn’t have time to pass out here. Or anywhere, if she could help it. She had been subject to worse before.

It took more effort than she would have liked to heft her cannon back up.

She turned to begin her trek up the hill, with the urgency of someone who wanted to get back to the thick of the confrontation as quickly as possible, seeping injury be damned. Up top, two people were having a time of blowing Talon away. More specifically, Junkrat was blowing Talon away, and Roadhog was watching him do it. Every so often, the massive Junker would hook someone who managed to stumble within range, dispatch them in some grisly manner or another, and move on to the next. Aleksandra grit her teeth as she stepped heavily around the rubble. She’d eaten that bullet for the small one; the man was a walking stick (yes, double entendre fully intended). No one knew how, he _ate_. Whomever was on kitchen duty at any given time made sure that Junkrat got plenty. It didn’t seem to matter, because no one could notice if he had gotten any fleshier (save Dr. Zeigler, and you’d get her to drop patient confidentiality over her dead body). Regardless, he was already missing limbs, and none of what he was wearing could be called protective. She could soak a bullet with her stomach; he didn’t have enough stomach to soak anything. Of course, had she not gotten a bit too happy with her graviton surge she may not have had to eat the hit at all; it had not been anywhere near charged when she tried to pull the trigger, and her shield generator had yet to cycle back up. Well, whatever. It was done, he was alive, and happily, obliviously raining unstable explosive hell upon their opponents. Roadhog… noticed. At least, she thought so. But the edges of her vision were still moving in dizzying ways, and she shed all higher contemplative reasoning. There were a dozen—withdrawing—Talon agents between her and the safety of their drop ship, and they’d have to kill her to stop her. 

Given the bullet burning in her gut, she rather hoped they’d make an expeditious retreat.

 

* * *

 

None of what she wanted to happen was happening.

Talon, as was their way, made their retreat as violent and aggressive as they were able, forcing anyone giving chase to stay on their game, Aleksandra included. Even through the haze of pain in her stomach, she was still cognizant of how hot her cannon was getting; considering it felt like she was keying her shields more often than was possible, this was not a complete surprise. She made a note to check the heat sinks when she was finally indisposed. And no longer bleeding.

Speaking of, she was rather confident that the squishy liquid in her boots was her own blood. The entire front of her body felt wrapped in that not-quite-warm, sticky, wet sensation that was rather unique to intense bleeding. That, and the fact that she felt oddly cold, despite being heavily armored, the exertion of combat, and the balmy weather. She should have been sweaty and hot, not pale and shivering. Which was bad. Even she could recognize it as so. Which is why she felt intense relief when the order finally came to disengage and pull out.

As usual, she was one of the last people onto the ship, but this was less about making sure those wearing less protection than herself made in on board and more about maintaining the façade about her ability to walk straight despite the consistent light-headedness and ever-present vertigo at the edges of her vision. She grit her teeth and stomped through it, dropping heavily into the nearest seat available. This placed her both near the drop ship hatch (a bonus for a quick exit at the end of the ride), and across from Genji Shimada and his omnic “master.”

She was not yet too light-headed for that thought to not turn her stomach. 

At least, no more that the ship’s sudden liftoff threatened to do.

Contrary to popular belief, she did make an active effort to at least be polite to Genji. Years of conditioning were difficult to kill. Some days were harder than others, particularly when she was high-strung or otherwise uneasy, and she could not for the life of her see past the blank visor and faceplate, and just the sound of the hydraulics in his body made the hair on her neck stand on end and her trigger finger itch ferociously. On those days, she was professional at best, borderline hostile at worst, to her later chagrin. Still, she tried. While not openly discussed, it was also no secret that his bionic body had not been an elective procedure in the slightest; he had no blame, nor really any input, as it was the end result of his violent quarrel with his family. While it still prickled against all of her hardwired danger!instincts, he was still human. At least, somewhere. She had never seen it, but apparently when he took parts of his helmet off, he still enjoyed dying his hair green. Lúcio and Hana both swore by it. And since she didn’t begrudge McCree or Satya or anyone else their prostheses, it smacked of hypocrisy to hold Genji’s against him. Even if his prosthesis happened to be his entire body.

 _The omnic_ was another matter entirely.

Even as it leaned slightly into Genji’s shoulder, sparking from some amount of damage to its back and one arm, its very presence raised all her hackles. One of its size and make were usually low on her priority list of “things to dismantle,” but she was injured and it was in the same ship as her and pain changed people’s priorities. And then it turned its head to _look_ at her, and she felt something cold slither down her spine.

She could throw the thing farther than she trusted it. Because, if she were completely honest with herself (easier to admit right now when she had lost enough blood to be not quite right in the head), its very presence in the base with the rest of them _terrified_ her. She had spent the last four years of her life putting bullets, plasma, and even her fists—if she were unfortunate enough to be both caught without a loaded weapon and within point blank range—into any and all omnics within reach of her. She could identify a model by silhouette, through the snow, at dusk. She could tell by the lights on one whether she was fore or aft of it. She could tell by movement whether it had noticed her. She trained along side humans, but she _fought_ machines. And she was damned good at it. She had to be, when the larger, more clever ones could read a heat signature from a kilometer away and spend just another few seconds filling that area with any number of different kinds of ordinance. She nursed scars from her previous encounters; she knew people who had suffered far worse than that.

Being in the same complex as one, especially unrestrained, unconfined, and allowed to just float around wherever it damned well chose frightened her more than she would ever divulge willingly.

It continued to look at her, and some corner of her mind freed from reason by a sudden lack of blood to portions of her brain wondered what omnics saw when they looked at humans. Heat for sure, but could this one read vitals? Did it know just how injured she was? She dismissed this train of thought as it lifted its head from Genji’s shoulder slightly. What the hell did it _want._ She hoped that she still looked as intimidating as she wished to.

“Miss Zaryanova.”

She growled.

“You are injured, and your skin is worryingly pale. I can help, if you would allow it.”

She _hissed._

Like hell she was going to let it touch her, and she could feel cold panic coiling through her core at the thought. Even if it did most of the work with those strange metal orbs that sat around its neck (don’t ask her how those worked; she didn’t know, and she didn’t care to know), she would let it within arm’s reach if it wouldn’t then make it back out. Genji cocked his head ever so slightly. The cyborg was difficult to read on a normal basis; she had no idea what he was thinking about now, but she could be reasonably sure it had a lot to do with her open hostility towards the omnic.

She was expecting a verbal confrontation; both Shimadas could have short tempers, it just generally took longer to light the fuse of the younger one. According to McCree and Tracer both, this had not always been the case. She didn’t currently have the energy to hold her end of a full-blown argument, but he could bring it if he wanted; he sure as hell wasn’t going to change her mind inside this hold. Instead, Genji shifted his weight a little, regarding her intently.

“Agent Zaryanova,” and if there was any specific inflection in his voice that she should be reading, she couldn’t hear it, “you are showing signs of acute shock. Cyanosis, reduced skin temperature, low blood pressure, increased heart rate. It is to the point where it is quite concerning.”

Well, now she knew who could read vitals. Unless they were in constant communication with each other. She suppressed a shudder, and turned it into a caustic growl instead. 

“I am _fine_.”

Genji kept his hands folded in his lap, the picture of calm.

“And I am impressed that you are still conscious. Let us help.” 

 _Us._ The both of them. At least he was upfront about it.

“No.”

“Zarya—“

“ _Agent Shimada._ ” And she spat, like an angry cat. “Touch me, and I will bend both _you,_ ” a pointed finger here, “and _it,_ ” a more harshly pointed finger here, “together into a sculpture.” And she had to take far more breaths in between those words than she would have otherwise. She was sure it smacked more of weakness than strength. Genji leaned back slightly in not-quite-resignation, more likely readjusting for his next attempt. His vents hissed softly— _creepy_ —and his lights flickered. She could not tell for sure, but it seemed she was brushing against the beginning of his irritation. Other than these small reactions, he held her gaze evenly.

Aleksandra found something else in the room to growl at, as neither the omnic nor Genji reacted to her snarling in any manner than she wanted. On down the bench, Roadhog sat in silence, fiddling with his gun. She could not be sure how closely he was following the conversation, but he didn’t show any interest even if he was. Junkrat was fast asleep, leaning against the big Junker’s side.

Lucky oblivious bastard.

The ship decelerated and rolled, and Aleksandra’s vision spun far more than it should have with such a maneuver. She didn’t realize she was leaning until her head touched the once-again-cold metal of her cannon, propped against the bench next to her thigh, muzzle down. It was heavy enough that she had been using it to support part of her weight for quite a while; she wholly planned to use it to stand up just as soon as the ship landed back at base.

She could not tell how long it had been, but she eventually felt the familiar pitch of her stomach as the ship dropped into the hangar at Gibraltar.

Across from her, Genji stood slowly. She would not have noticed had his biolights not brightened as he did so. He kept one hand on the omnic’s shoulder, steadying it. He was helping it to its feet, but he addressed her as he did so. 

“Angela says she’ll meet you in the loading bay.”

And apparently he was able to communicate directly with Mercy without letting anyone else know. Were she in front of anyone else, she may well have taken the offer. From him, from _them_ , it felt patronizing. She bared her teeth.

“I can get to Dr. Ziegler myself.”

Even through his faceplate, she heard him sigh.

“I know you will try, but you do not _have_ to.”

“Leave me alone. I can walk.” And she _would_ ; neither cyborg nor omnic nor anyone else in this ship would see her any more weakened than she already was. She just needed the hold to stop spinning. 

“Agent Zaryanova—“

He did not get a chance to finish his thought, nor did she get to spit another rebuttal. The sharp jerk of his head was all the warning she got before someone grabbed her shoulder, _hard._ She snarled, in what she thought was an impressive display of rage, but it did not frighten off the owner of the hand. Instead, her vision twirled horrifically as Roadhog hauled her clean out of her seat, throwing her bodily over his shoulder.

She weighed one hundred and thirty kilograms, and none of it was fat. It had been a very long time since someone had picked her up outside of a sparring ring, and she did not like it. 

Reinhardt’s hugs did not count either.

Her fury was so real she could almost taste it (it tasted rather like blood…oh wait). She made an honest attempt at thrashing, but her limbs felt heavy, cold and numb, and they did not move at all how she wanted. She could no longer quite tell which direction was up, and if she’d had anything in her stomach she may have lost it. Under normal circumstances, she would probably be a telling shade of pink as well; in lock step with her rage was her embarrassment, and it burned in the back of her throat. Not for long; she spat it out in a long stream of curses that was entirely ignored by her assailant. There was another uncomfortable lurch, a hiss of fresh air, and the bright lights of the loading bay. The ship had landed and docked, and Roadhog wasted no further time lugging Zarya down the ramp. She was fresh out of time to prevent any further humiliation as she was carried out in front of people. This did absolutely nothing for her mood, and her words only got more vicious. Roadhog duly ignored them, just like the rest.

Junkrat had roused at some point, probably when his bodyguard had risen from his seat. Skinny man was following along behind, doing a combination of giggling at Aleksandra and sidestepping puddles of her blood.

Oh yeah. She was leaving a trail. Now that she was out in the light, she could see the ghastly pallor of her arms; her skin was almost blue, which contrasted grotesquely with the ink of her tattoos. Still did not inhibit her ability to walk. Probably. Maybe.

And then Roadhog readjusted her position, causing his shoulder to dig hard and directly into the wound on her stomach, and she didn’t remember much else after that.

 

* * *

 

Waking up was a chore, rather like digging her way out of sand. Using only her mind.

She could hear things, probably, and she would scramble to put her thoughts into some lucid arrangement, but as soon as she had ordered them enough to understand anything, the warm bliss of unconsciousness swept back down. She had no way of counting how many times it happened, how often she could feel someone’s fingers on her wrist, or hear someone—or multiple people?—moving around her, and she tried to rouse, she really did, but the sleepy pool she was in was deep, with steep sides. So she spent her time doing a combination of sleeping and trying _not_ to sleep.

By the time Aleksandra finally managed to open her eyes, it felt like she had been asleep for days. Maybe she had.

It was dark, when she was able to blink slowly back into consciousness. After a moment of looking around the dim room, she almost thought it must be night, except that she could see light coming through the drawn window shades. The various monitors in the room shed rather negligible light, and she could not make heads or tails of the information on the displays. She was not necessarily supposed to, she assumed; that was for any of the people who made the goings on of the medical bay their business.

She sighed, and resisted the urge to scratch at the IV line in her arm. She flexed both hands, mindful of the sensor clipped to one finger. She had no desire to poke at Dr. Ziegler’s irritation by removing equipment from herself. Her limbs responded well enough, but there were a few twinges of weakness there. She was still drowsy and light-headed; whether that was from being out for so long (however long that was; she wished she could find a clock or something) or whatever medication they had her on, it was impossible to tell. On a whim, she looked back down at her arms; even in the low light, it was apparent that her skin had returned to its normal color. That manner of ugly white-blue would have stood out, even here. She had seen it on other people before, in conjunction with battlefield wounds. She had not enjoyed seeing it on herself. She slid one hand under the blankets to rub at her abdomen. She didn’t feel anything, at least not with her fingers, although movement produced some marked soreness in her stomach.

Soreness she could deal with. At least she was no longer in danger of bleeding to death.

She could do without the sudden boredom, though. She had an urge to get up out of bed and stretch, to take stock of what exactly was hurt, to loosen her body back up and return herself to full, proper working order. The threat of Dr. Ziegler’s ire was fast becoming less something she feared, and more something she wondered if she could sneak away from.

Turns out, she didn’t have time to think it over. The door to her room opened, but she was not at all greeted by the good doctor herself. Instead, she got her favorite medic, for more reasons than one. He had his green lab coat over his tee shirt and pants (and of course it was green; she remembered hearing how he had begged Mercy to let him have a color that was not white, and she had far bigger issues to deal with than what color her apprentice wanted his lab coat to be, so green he got). He walked in carrying a tablet but fiddling with his visor, leading her to believe he was either not really looking at the tablet or he had managed to sync the two. The latter was highly possible. At about half the length of the room from her he looked up, and she threw him a lazy wave. He paused his stride for just half a second, and something in his appearance wound up from relaxed to vexed.

Aleksandra quirked a brow. If she had to describe the expression on his face, she would probably choose something like… miffed.

Lúcio set the tablet down on the bed, and schooled his expression back to something more similar to his usual bright bedside manner. Even tired and drugged, she was sure it wouldn’t last; whatever was bothering him, he would bring it up when he felt like it.  
  
She had a notion, and she would rather not talk about it at all, thanks.

“Look who’s finally awake.” He gave a cursory glance at the monitors in her room before loosely crossing his arms over his chest, looking down at her. “How are you feeling?”

“Mm. Weak, but otherwise alright. How long was I asleep?’

Lúcio idly shifted his weight. That lab coat looked cute on him. She didn’t think they’d ever done anything with that. Huh, when Dr. Zeigler discharged her she was going to show both Lúcio and his coat a damned good time.

Lúcio was either oblivious to her staring, or ignoring it entirely.

“Just around thirty-six hours. Angie removed the bullet from your abdomen without any issues, but you had lost so much blood on arrival. Really, I’m rather surprised you’re awake so soon.” And his smile dropped, voice pitching down to something really not quite under his breath. “I’m rather surprised at many things.”

She smirked. It felt cockier than she did. 

“Oh?”

Lúcio leveled a look at her, clearly not amused.

“You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”

She knew. She knew, but she sure didn’t want to admit it, as an admission would lead her straight into the Topic She Was Avoiding At All Costs. She rather hoped to be stubborn enough in dodging the subject that Lúcio saved it for another time when she wasn’t trapped in a hospital bed.

“Hmph. I’m harder to dispatch than that.” She snorted. “You should’ve seen how I got that scar that goes across my back.”

Lúcio let out an aggravated sigh and scrubbed both hands down his face. When he looked at her again, his expression could be described as piercing. She’d seen it before, but she’d never had this particular variation of it leveled at her. She bristled defensively; there was no avoiding it now, she could feel it. All hopes of him sparing her this conversation, _again_ , flew out the window.

“Can I be candid right now? I’m gonna be candid.” And he squared himself to her, with that particular body language that made his foul mood expressly clear. “You almost killed yourself.” 

She growled.

“Please. I’ve been shot multiple times at once. One bullet to the stomach is not enough to put me down.”

“This has nothing to do with—well, it has a little to do with that, but not quite what I’m talking about.”

Aleksandra decided that if she could not escape it, she would dive in head first. Get this over with as soon as possible. She still didn’t like it, and she crossed her arms in away that she hoped made this abundantly clear.

“How much did the cyborg tell you?” 

“Ask Angela. _My_ initial point of contact was _Roadhog_ , who dragged your pale, delirious ass in here over his shoulder, saying that you had just suddenly stopped swearing at him in Russian, and that he was going to go wash all your blood off of his back.” He made a vague, if angry, gesture towards the front of the medical bay. “We had to clean and disinfect the trail you left all the way from the med bay doors to the loading dock, never mind the pool you left in the Orca. All avoidable, except that you _refused medical treatment._ ”

“I was not going to let it touch me.” She was trying not to hiss at him, and she was failing. He knew why. She’d told him why before. _He knew_. Generally, Lúcio was one of the few she could have a dissenting conversation about omnics with, because he managed to do all of disagree with her, make an honest effort to understand her, and voice his own opinion and not sound extremely patronizing. She shouldn’t have to tell him why _now._

Lúcio was entirely unaffected by her snarling, and matched her ire with his own.  
  
“I know, because Roadhog was merciful enough to spare five extra words to tell me. I know you, so I didn’t need any more than that.” He leaned back slightly, as if the distance would help him gather himself. “Aleksandra…”

“No, do not give me this lecture now.” 

“I will, thanks, I have the right.”

And she snapped. She had no idea how soundproof these walls were, and frankly, she gave no fucks.

“What _right?_ ” 

She’d seen the coiling rage in him rear up only once before. She had not been expecting to see it again. His attempt to gather himself apparently discarded, he snarled at her.

“The one I’m invoking after helping Angela spend a couple hours digging that bullet out of your organs, that’s how. Your body was drinking blood transfusions like it was happy hour at a bar. Your blood pressure was so low, we needed special equipment to even _read_ it, and at one point you stopped _breathing._ ” He drew a sharp, deep breath, and just like that, his anger evaporated. His whole posture deflated, shoulders slumped, and he just looked at her in a way that made it surprisingly hard to look him in the face. She really wanted to punch a pillow. When he spoke again, it was almost startlingly quiet. “You almost died.”

And those three words right there slew the myriad of caustic responses she had been preparing.

She held his gaze for a few moments longer before finding something else in the room to glare at. There were not many options. It took more than a few moments for both the silence to become unbearable, and for her to regain control of her voice.

“But I didn’t.” She found her temper floundering, and it left her even more tired than before. She sighed and leaned back against head of the bed. She wanted to sleep. In her own bed, preferably, but Lúcio did not have the authority to discharge patients; she’d have to wait for Mercy. Lúcio hadn’t moved an inch from where he stood at the side of the bed, looking every bit as tired as she felt. She wondered how much of that thirty-six hours he’d managed to sleep. If it had been her, wrists-deep inside a friend looking for a piece of metal, it would not have been very much at all. She gave him a small smile. “You would not have let me.”

The tension in the room slackened considerably when he bothered to return it. He looked like himself; in dire need of a nap and probably something to eat, but otherwise as affable as could be expected.

“You’re damned right I wouldn’t. I don’t have time to let you code on a table. I would watch out for Angela, too. She’s a little ticked.” He made to pick the tablet back up, and then seemed to think better of it. He sighed, scratching at the back of his neck. “Listen, I know, okay? I’m not asking for change; we’ve had conversations about this enough times for me to know I should not expect you to have more than the bare minimum of conversation necessary with Zenyatta, at least not anytime soon. I know you’re really trying with Genji, too. All I ask is for you to please try not to stumble over your pride and die because you won’t accept any help.” If it were from anybody else, she may have been slightly indignant. But it was from Lúcio, who didn’t have a patronizing bone in his body, and who watched her stop breathing and still had the sense to keep doing his job. Despite any ribbing, field medics were hardy people. “Please.”

And unlike some others she had met over the course of her career, this one asked politely for what he wanted.

And really, he did understand. When she woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, ears ringing from sounds that were not there, which in turn could only be soothed by the white noise of rushing water, he knew. She thought she was being stealthy, the first time, managed to stumble into the shower without waking him. The man slept like a log anyhow. It was when she stepped out, could not remember setting out clean towels for herself, and then found him reading quietly on his tablet that she knew she had not been as covert as she attempted. He hadn’t said anything when she flopped back into bed, just put down his tablet, shut out the light, and curled warmly into her side. She’d fallen back asleep squeezing him harder than she should. He never complained; not then, and not in the handful of other times since, including that one stretch of about a week when she didn’t want to sleep in her own room. She never had issues when she slept in his bed, which she attributed to whatever music he allowed to play when he slept.

He was not perfect either. They had swapped stories on a few of these nighttime occasions, and she only got his because she asked. The favelas of Rio were an… _eventful_ place to grow up.

She sat back up and reached for the collar of his coat, tugging him down towards her. He let her drag him in, and she rested her forehead against his. He looped his arms loosely around her neck, settling his forearms on her shoulders. He was warm, and she did some combination of pulling him in tighter (still by the collar), and leaning her weight harder into him.

“I make no promises, except that I will make every effort to not die.” _To not let you see me almost die, either._ “Even if it’s… _him._ For you, for critical injuries, I will try.” That was all she could give right now.

“That’s really all I ask for.”

Of course it was. Sometimes she was still shocked that pleasing Lúcio was actually that easy. She moved her hand from his collar to the side of his neck, fingers digging lightly into the soft skin and fine hair at his nape. His arms stayed on her shoulders, but his hands came up to run through her hair, which she was sure was already a right mess. He didn’t say anything about it if it was, just continued to run his warm fingers gently along her scalp; cold doctor’s hands this man would never have.

He didn’t move until she released him, and he was grinning when she finally did so. She flopped heavily back into the bed, exhausted. Lúcio scooped his tablet back up, and began typing away at it. He stopped only to shoot another couple glances at the monitors.

“Well, all your vitals check out. I was just sent here for a couple scans of your abdomen for Angela, and then well see if we can convince her to award you some bed rest. In your own bed.”

And she was really very thankful for this. She gestured with her hand.

“Do I need to remove the blankets for that?”

“Nope, not at all. Gimme just a minute here…” He pulled a small device out of a coat pocket, and attached it to the top of the tablet. “This thing will go right through most textiles. Not so much armor, though, especially the kind we see around here.”

She gave an airy snort, before bringing a hand up to her face.

“What was the damage to my armor?”

“There was some serious deformation to the plate that took the bullet, for sure. You’ll have to get the gritty from Torbjörn and Brigitte, though. They’re the ones making repairs. They have your cannon, too.” He shot her a sideways look. “And Lena was a little mad that she had to clean so much of your blood out of the ship. She’s currently off-base, but just warning you in advance.” 

Aleksandra groaned. “Was there anything I did _not_ bleed on?”

“Yeah, everything that was not anywhere nearby your route from the ship to the operating table.” The grin he gave her was just so cheeky. She snarled, and gave him a gentle push to his shoulder. It carried no menace. He stuck his tongue out at her.

“And done and sent. As soon as she’s free she’ll be in here, yeah? You are not the only one who ended up putting themselves in medical, and some of them are more unruly patients than you. I hafta go sterilize a ton of shit, so I’ll be back in a little while.”

It was going to be noticeably more dull in here without the company, but there was no helping it.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, here. I almost forgot; we pulled it out of your stuff when we stripped you. Hopefully it can stave off a little boredom.” He fiddled in his other coat pocket and pulled out her phone, handing it to her. Well, at least she could check messages and read. “I put all the rest of your stuff back in your room, along with all the cards.”

That brought any other thought to a screeching halt, and she blinked slowly at him.

“Cards?” 

Lúcio shot her the driest look. 

“Please, you know how we work here. There was no way Angie was going to let all that stuff stay in here forever, so there is a massive jungle of cards, flowers and stuffed animals in your room right now, waiting for you.”

And Aleksandra did some strange combination of blushing and grinning. It almost hurt her face.

“I should not be surprised.” She arched a brow at him. “Should I assume your gift is the best and largest one?”  
  
“Mine is certainly the best, but I didn’t get you a card. Hard to find something written for that that will not tip people off.” His grin returned, and it left nothing to the imagination. She was tempted to throw a pillow at him.

“I am stuck in a hospital bed. Do not torture me.” Because as soon as she was out of here, and had herself a shower, food and sleep, she was going to come for him, even if she had to drag him out of medical. He did not look like he would mind.

“Well, when Angela clears you for strenuous activity, we can talk.”

And she almost chucked her phone at him.

“Get out, and go do your work.”

He laughed, throwing her a sassy wave as he ducked out the door.

Long as he brought that lab coat with him later, he’d be forgiven.

She sighed, and flipped through her phone. Her messages were awash in greetings from her teammates, and she found herself smiling harder the more she read them. She did feel a cold stab when she thumbed over one, part of a chain with Lena and Hana and Lúcio, in his usual sharp wit, and at his brother’s expense.

She had never gotten a text from Genji in her life. She stared at it for a while, as well as others in the chain. He had written a simpler one as well, solo. Evidently her rebuff of his help did not leave him unwilling to communicate with her, at least through text. Of course, it was much harder to speak to someone in person, with all the subtle body language that could make or break a civil conversation.

It took longer than she would have admitted for her to punch his contact and start typing.

 _:Genji Shimada:_  

The response was prompt. Very prompt. Did his texts appear inside his helmet? She brushed the thought aside.

_:Agent Zaryanova, it is good to hear from you. Welcome back to the land of the living.:_

So crisp and formal. She knew from Lúcio that when Genji was at ease, one could expect whole sentences of just emojis. Maybe eventually.

 _:thank you. it is good to be back.:_ She took a deep breath, swallowing hard against the thickness at the back of her throat, and kept typing. Because she promised she would at least try.

_:do you have a moment? i am still in the med bay. i think we need to talk.:_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure this is so full of typos as to be embarrassing; I finished this at 0200, and my eyes cannot even any more. My friend is a damned good beta, though, so hopefully she caught the worst of my mistakes. XD Still, though, at that hour of the morning, I think I leech off of her brain in order to remain functional.


	6. Team Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hanzo and Lúcio have a nice chat in the kitchen. McCree brings out Zarya's inner child. Nerf guns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, Hanzo straight hijacked this chapter. My bad.

Hanzo could not fathom what came over him when he volunteered to assist Lúcio in the kitchen.

He was aware, more than aware, that he was not particularly social. He enjoyed his solitude by nature, made more acute by years on the run from his family and frequent visits by clan assassins, and sharpened significantly here in Gibraltar, which happened to be stuffed with very lethal strangers.

This place was, by and large, inhabited by his brother’s friends. How much Genji’s condition had pretainted them against him was somewhat unknown (although Dr. Ziegler’s initial coldness in his regard was immediately recognized for what it was), even if he understood and accepted it entirely. Regardless, if his presence caused people discomfort, that was easily remedied at no harm to himself.

As it happened, these people were difficult to run from. McCree and his incessant hounding notwithstanding (which would eventually transform into something so confusing and enjoyable that Hanzo sometimes wondered what was happening to his life), several members, particularly the younger ones, made efforts to reach out to him whenever they crossed paths. Tracer approached him with a deliberate slowness, but Hana just threw herself into his presence. It was… different than what he expected. While she did back out of his personal space when he started to snarl, she did so with a promise to come socialize with (read: bother) him again. At some point, it stopped being something he avoided, and became something he just let happen. It also put him in the unique position of encouraging her away from what was sometimes her fifth bag of chips that day, and towards some real food; heaven knew his brother certainly didn't help, and she was in his presence quite a bit, too. If Genji could still eat chips the way he used to, they'd likely be leaving trails of wrappers together.

Which brought him right back to where he was now, helping Lúcio prepare several large salmon fillets that would be dinner in an hour. Well, Hanzo himself was not on salmon duty; he was currently quartering tomatoes for the accompanying salad. Lúcio was busy whisking together a couple jars of pureed fruit in a bowl with a handful of other ingredients, destined to adorn the three thick cuts of fish in trays on the counter. The fruit was pungent; not in a foul way, but it was sharp and tangy and smelled distinctly more like something that would be in a dessert than a savory entrée. 

“Remind me, please, what you are making again?”

Lúcio looked up from where he was furiously whipping the ingredients together, shooting him a grin. No wonder he and McCree got along so well; the two of them smiled almost nonstop when they were together. Hanzo idly wondered what that was like, being so free with one’s own happiness, and if he should try to do a little more of it.

“Salmão ao molho de maracujá,” and he poured the mixture into a saucepan before elaborating, “salmon with passion fruit. It’s always been a personal favorite of mine, and it can be so hard to find passion fruit anything outside of Brazil.” He shot Hanzo a look over his shoulder as he stirred the saucepan. “That nice restaurant that we stopped at on the way back from New York? The one with that ‘passion fruit’ tapioca pudding? That was a mango. That was _mango_ tapioca, man. Like they couldn’t be bothered to tell the very obvious difference.” Lúcio heaved a dejected sigh. “They don’t even taste the same. I swear, you want it done right, gotta do it yourself.”

Hanzo remembered, because Lúcio was sad about it the whole ride home, and watching Lúcio be sad about pudding was pitiful to see. Clearly he had been planning this for a few weeks in recompense.

Hanzo liked Lúcio. He initially did not think he would. After weeks watching team dynamics from the fringes, he had reached the conclusion that Lúcio was too loud and energetic for him; young enough and different enough to not have any meshing interests (of course, he’d made a similar assessment of McCree, and he had never been more excited to be wrong). While the difference in interests were largely true, Lúcio was incredibly adept at reading body language, and Hanzo was surprised to find the energy levels tempered down in his presence to something that was not overwhelming. Every so often there’d be spikes, and Hanzo was quietly pleased to discover that he only encountered them when he was not Lúcio’s target audience, or when he felt he could handle it. Most crafty.

Him and Hana together, though, could still be a bit much. And then there was the nonsense he had walked in on that also included his brother, McCree, and Tracer (and something that looked suspiciously like that terrible Twizzlers candy, cheese puffs, and a line of shots on fire), and he had turned on his heel and walked straight back out again.

Noise and incredibly attention-grabbing getup aside, he did well in the field, which Hanzo appreciated. Honestly, he expected a bit more hand-holding on the part of all the younger members of Overwatch, but they all proved entirely competent. Sometimes the relative lack of experience showed (Lúcio, for instance, was new to organized, regimented team operations), but they learned quick and adjusted smoothly.

And they surprised him.

Hanzo rubbed his shoulder, almost unconsciously. Almost, because the bruise there was forming nicely. He’d ended up on the sparring mats with Lúcio that afternoon, as he’d been down in the training rooms when 76 had declared that the medic was no longer allowed to spar with either Hana or Tracer during practice, as those three were in a near constant state of joined-at-the-hip (a strange saying, but after watching them all squeeze onto the couch to play video games for hours, it was quite apt). Hanzo, as he had been unoccupied and wishing to spare Lúcio from having to spar with 76 instead—the old man was both faster and stronger than he looked, and he was a merciless instructor, even by Hanzo’s own strict standards—volunteered to be his new partner for the session. It was not entirely altruistic; Hanzo was aware of capoeira’s status as both a martial art and a dance, but despite seeing Lúcio use it regularly in its latter form, he had never had the opportunity to face someone who used it in combat. This would be as much a learning experience for him as it would be for Lúcio.

Hanzo did not consider himself a small man, but nor was he a large brute like McCree, or whatever monstrous legend had spawned Reinhardt. Lúcio was still half a head shorter than himself. It never seemed to bother him, despite the friendly ribbing he received for it (probably because he had a light-hearted, clever retort for everything thrown his way; again, he and McCree together produced some terrible things). Hanzo had seen his spars with Hana devolve into jokes and giggling; he was determined to make the medic take him far more seriously.

Apparently, he needn’t have bothered. Hanzo knew he had come a long way when he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased that Lúcio approached him with all the focus the situation demanded or slightly hurt that the DJ didn’t think Hanzo was going to be anything but deadly serious about this. While without what Hanzo would consider formal martial arts training, Lúcio was not incompetent. What he lacked in raw technical skill he made up for in physical ability; he was a dangerous combination of both fast and coordinated, with good eyes and the reflexes to keep up. Most impressively, he knew how to get inside an opponent’s reach despite of, and sometimes _because_ of, his small stature.

And Hanzo wanted to know how Lúcio built the muscle he had; he had never seen the man in the exercise rooms outside of the treadmills, and then only when he could not go for a real run on the trails outside. Hanzo would like to blame it on the strange hours the man kept, he may just be missing the medic’s peak operating times, but Hanzo was not known for sleeping when he should either, and he wished to avoid the hypocrisy.

Also, the first time Lúcio took to his hands and lashed out with his feet, Hanzo was not quite as prepared as he thought he was, hence the growing bruise on his shoulder. He corrected that quickly, lest he become like Zarya, who had taken two heels to the chin the first time she had met Lúcio on the mats (and Hanzo only knew about this because he had to listen to his brother lord the winnings of the bet over everyone else in the base for hours). But since Hanzo was determined to make this a teachable moment for Lúcio too, he made sure his next counter and turnabout ended with Lúcio face down on the mats, pinned.

That was how all the subsequent matches ended as well. Hanzo had been conditioned for combat since childhood—indeed, he and Genji had almost been bred for it—and after a few minutes getting a handle of Lúcio’s abilities and patterns, it became less hazardous for him to face the flying feet and emerge victorious, although “patterns” and “Lúcio” were a difficult thing to relate to each other in combat. He did, however, make time to supply advice and correction of form, if not technique (capoeira was a far different martial art than anything he knew, and he did not feel qualified to correct Lúcio’s technical skill in it). Despite having his attempts to win constantly rebuffed, Lúcio returned to his feet as quickly and enthusiastically as he had the first time, entirely free of any overt frustration. It was surprisingly refreshing, and Hanzo found that he actually enjoyed teaching when his audience was attentive and receptive to criticism. Gentle criticism. He had never considered himself the type, but yet, here he was. McCree would be proud.

Lúcio eventually weaseled out of sparring by playing up his assignment to dinner duty, and 76 had begrudgingly relented. In a rare lapse of self-control, Hanzo’s mouth was moving before he thought about it, and asked if he would like any help. He did not know why; cooking was neither an activity he found any particular pleasure in, nor had extraordinary skill at. He was raised in the care of his father’s personal chefs. He could cook well enough to feed himself, and that was where his skill stopped. While on the run, there had been no need to improve it. He regretted his offer as soon as the words left his mouth, but Lúcio just grinned at him and, mortifyingly, took him up on his offer. He was going to take a quick shower and then meet Hanzo in the kitchen.

Hanzo slid the now quartered tomatoes into the salad bowl. Most mercifully, Lúcio had assigned him to simply chopping or peeling or otherwise preparing ingredients, and did the majority of actual, imaginative cooking himself. Whether it was because he could see Hanzo’s slight discomfort or not, he did not say. He was impressed by people with the creativity to cook (and Hanzo fully believed it was a creative venture). McCree had been the most surprising, especially after many late nights finding the man eating either instant ramen, Pop-Tarts, frozen pizza rolls or the foulness that was the Frito pie he made for Hana’s birthday. She absolutely loved it, which told Hanzo all he wanted to know about a dinner made primarily out of corn chips. It was almost staggering, then to find out that he could cook real food that was quite good. It did not appear to be a surprise for those not new to Overwatch; Lena and Fareeha both later confirmed that McCree’s culinary ability was a real thing, had been that way for years. Hanzo was a little late to the party, but he was thankful that he could appreciate it now.  
  
He could do with less spiciness, though. His stomach had thrown a violent revolt on more than one occasion following McCree’s apparent amorous fling with a jar of chili peppers. Never again, please. Never mind the napalm scraping across his tongue, he’d about eaten the entire container of yogurt from the refrigerator to make the rest of the burning stop.

Fortunately, Lúcio was far less inclined towards heavily peppering his food than McCree, and while his cooking repertoire was not quite as expansive, he could hold his own in the kitchen. Apparently _no one_ had expected it, Hanzo included. But the first time his rotation in the kitchen had come up and he pulled a full meal out of the oven, he dashed those expectations thoroughly.

And then there was the whole apparent issue with the brigadeiro. The three Hanzo managed to kidnap before the remaining residents descended on them like sharks were really very good.

He was brought out of his contemplation by Lúcio, who had stopped humming enthusiastically along to whatever music he had playing (it did not sound like something of his, and was not unpleasant to listen to), and fixed him with a wide smile.

“Hey, thanks for offering to give me a hand. I know it’s not your favorite thing in the world.”

Hanzo resisted making a face, which would only reinforce what he assumed was his apparent distaste in this activity.

“That obvious, am I?”

“Naw, I wouldn’t call it obvious. Well, never mind. I would. You aren’t much of a people person.” Lúcio shot him a sheepish grin. “Took me a bit by surprise, is all.”

“Surprised me, too.” Even so, he found himself in relative good spirits, credit given at least somewhat to his present company. Lúcio was either not deterred by his possible foul mood, or picking up on his contentment, because he gave him a light, companionly nudge with his elbow.

“Hey, man, I’m just happy to see more of you. Glad you’re not hiding up in the rafters any more.”

A flat, sideways, look.

“This building has no rafters.” At least, none that could be seen. The Watchpoint had almost continuously uniform, smooth walls, floors, and ceilings; it had taken Hanzo a while to discover any available deviation in design that allowed him access to hiding spaces and shortcuts.

Lúcio rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, but his smile did not leave his face.

“You know what I mean.”

And Hanzo felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I do.” He had spent quite a lot of time away from the rest of the residents, originally for his own sanity. However, he was quickly finding that civilized company was refreshing and invigorating in its own way; now, he took it where he could get it. But in small doses. He began gathering items off the counter space to be put in the sink. “And you are welcome, although I feel I have still left the majority of the work to you.”

The medic gave him a dismissive wave.

“Hey, help is help. Having someone to prep ingredients makes it all that much easier. Especially having to feed all these people, who I swear eat like monsters.”

Hanzo gave him a soft snort and a nod of agreement. The amount of food the base went through on even a daily basis bordered on obscene. Proximity to extended missions made that intake go both down _and_ up, as it siphoned off what would otherwise be mouths to feed, only to return them later ravenous to restore any calories burned in the interim. Watching Reinhardt relieve such hunger was almost horrifying. When it was him and Zarya both, watching what resulted was considered a form of base entertainment, best viewed safely from the other side of the kitchen. Since the inclusion of Roadhog, there were moments when the mess hall was a dangerous place to be. One such incident placed all three on similar return times from their respective operations; no one had entered the mess hall unless they were going to stealthily retrieve something that none of the three had any plans to eat.

Instead of actively avoiding the kitchen, there were several members of the base that instead aimed to time dinner to coincide with the arrival of companions. McCree and Lúcio were squarely included in this category, as well as both Reinhardt and Torbjörn (which surprised Hanzo, but not as much as learning that the man had nine children; apparently, being so far away from them only encouraged him to roughly mother over crewmembers, much to Genji’s combined delight and exasperation).

Hanzo realized he should make at least some effort at small talk when he discovered he’d been watching Lúcio do all the real cooking for a few minutes, and he’d been told that his “frowny staring” (thanks, brother) creeped people out. The topic at hand was an easy choice, and it also soothed his curiosity, mild as it was.

“Where did you learn to cook? I was under the impression that having maids to do such household chores was common in Brazil.”

Lúcio acknowledged him with a casual wave of his mixing spoon.

“That would be my mother, in both regards. It is common, for those who can afford that stuff. The people doing the jobs, though? People like us, who could use the money.” He went about slowly pouring the sauce over the fish, with barely any break in the conversation. “My mom spent her whole day cleaning someone else’s house, doing someone else’s laundry, watching someone else’s kids. So as I grew up, I had to be self-sufficient.” Lúcio fixed him with a smile that was markedly softer than his dazzling usual. “She’s a great cook, and one of the first things she ever taught me was how to feed myself. As I got older, I could do it well enough to have dinner waiting for her when she got home late. Because like hell my mother was gonna cook and clean in someone else’s place all day, and then come home and have to do more of it. I made sure it was done, so she wouldn’t have to worry.”

“That… explains much about you.” 

Lúcio gave him a lazy shrug.

“It’s hard to forget where you came from, yeah? Even when things change, and _man_ has my life changed. I mean, look at where I am now!” He gestured grandly with is arms. Still, Hanzo was not entirely sure if he meant his involvement in Overwatch or his trip-on-a-rocket ascension to stardom. A small voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Genji asked _why not both?_

And then the Genji of his mind sat down and refused to leave. To his own surprise, Hanzo did not mind so much.

“Yes, it is hard to forget. Especially when your past comes back from over a decade of death and defeats you in your own house.”

That was probably the single most surprising thing to ever happen in his life; it even beat out his eventual seduction by the most stereotypical caricature of the American West that had ever walked the earth. That, and the immediate forgiveness.

Lúcio looked to be swallowing a wince, and he fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up—“

“You did not. I did.” Hanzo was clearly in the habit of surprising himself today. This was normally a topic he viciously avoided with all but the smallest handful of people (read: Genji, McCree, and no one else). But Lúcio was generally not in the habit of poking at other people’s business, and certainly not spreading it around (which was unbecoming of medics at best, and an illegal breach of privacy at worst). He would not ever call it a “safe” topic, but as his stay at Gibraltar extended, it became slowly less sore. Slowly.

Lúcio was busy dividing the bowl of sauce over the trays of fish, but he still spared Hanzo a glance over his shoulder as he did so.

“Am I allowed to ask questions? Or is that still a no-go? I mean, you can just tell me to shut up…”

“If I do not like the question, I will simply not answer it. I will hardly kill you for such.”

The medic cracked a small smile.

“Says the lord and master of the biggest yakuza clan ever.” And Hanzo was later going to meditate on how pleased it actually made him that someone other than the three usual suspects felt safe enough to attempt to joke with him, even if he was not the quickest to return it. “What was that like, by the way?” After a quick moment, he added, “you’re allowed to be vague, I’ll get it.”

Hanzo hummed in the back of his throat. There was still part of a container of olives on the counter, those that had not made it into the salad, and he idly picked at them. Salty, but not unpleasant. They were black and wrinkly and an acquired taste, but he liked them.

“It was… a unique life experience, to say the least. At its zenith, the empire had a hand in anything in Hanamura, and the areas immediately beyond, never mind any foreign business contacts. As such, my brother and I had the luxury of being raised as something bordering aristocracy. As we got older, we were not fooled; we were criminals playing at being nobility. For both of us, this meant a combination of extreme luxury and diligent control. As we neared adulthood, my future was groomed sharply towards control.” He filled in the unasked question without prompting. “Both by me, and of me. I was the heir; I had to be perfect.” 

Lúcio made a face, but still managed to smile through it and not make it look awkward. The man’s mastery of that facial expression was almost an art. In how many ways could one person smile? Hanzo just wanted to find his _one_ smile more often.

“Doesn’t sound nearly as romantic as it does in a manga.”

“I guarantee you, it is not.” If he was using only his mildest wording. He had buried the feeling for years, or had it buried for him by the clan elders, but their violent encounter had put his brother’s distaste in the family business in the forefront of his mind for years onward. “Hence Genji’s desire to be rid of it.”

And because hindsight was twenty-twenty, he could see it clearly. His brother’s slowly escalating acts of rebellion as he grew were not just him being recalcitrant; they were his burgeoning disillusion, and his desire to shed their family’s darkness from himself. Hanzo was in too deep to see it clearly, even when told to reign in Genji or be rid of him, like a nuisance pet. He hadn’t come to his senses until he could feel his brother’s blood coldly sticking his clothes to his skin, which had been far too late.

Or, as it turned out, not too late after all. Hanzo made a thoughtful sound from around another olive.

“All that to say that our ability to cook our own food was never actively curried. They encouraged all manner of other talents, even outside of combat, but we were expected to take full advantage of Shimada Castle’s kitchens. We were able to assimilate the basics, whenever we would sneak down for food in the middle of the night. Genji has always been better at it than I am, at least part of which I believe was to spite the elders. If it was deemed beneath him, he wanted it, just on principle.”

Lúcio grinned widely, even as he began putting the trays of salmon into the oven.

“And yet, here you are, helping me bake enough fish to feed a whale.” 

Hanzo cast him a look. And filched another olive.

“I still do not find that allowing you to do the bulk of the work means that I am ‘helping.’”

“But still, thanks anyways. For the sparring, too. I did _not_ want to spar with the old man. He hits like a truck. A very precise truck.”

All true. While he had never had an occasion to meet 76 in any sparring arena, his observations after being in the field raised some questions. The man was _strong,_ even more than his still-impressive build would lead one to assume. Also fast and coordinated, and Hanzo was almost of the opinion that his complaints about pain in his back were a ruse. McCree was somewhat tight-lipped on the subject, other than taking every opportunity to remind everyone that 76 was an old grouch with no sense of humor. Until recently, Hanzo felt like a similar description could have been put to himself.

McCree did drop just enough hints to let Hanzo know that the man was a former Overwatch agent; all of the old guard did, in fact, due to simply knowing him when he melted up from the shadows one evening. This was very telling; Hanzo was nursing a theory which, if he were still an active yakuza, would be worth money, since more than a few not-quite-dead criminal rings would love to get their hands on the head of also not-quite-dead Jack Morrison, but until such a confirmation was either definitively refuted or confirmed by someone else, he was simply going to sit on it. The soldier’s rap sheet, even in just five years, proved that the old man was a very poor enemy to have. He’d much rather listen to him grumble about the prevalent dad jokes made at his expense and steal away to drink his almost toxically-black coffee in private. Unlike Torbjörn, who maintained no illusion that he tended to brusquely watch over any Overwatch agent under the age of forty in lieu of being able to do so with his own kids, Soldier:76 snarled at any such pretense, even if the whole base watched it happen.

“He is skilled, and in good condition for his age. You could learn a lot from him.”

Lúcio sighed and scratched at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I know, but I could learn a lot from Reinhardt, too, and have more fun doing it.”

Hanzo snorted, and arched a brow.

“That man could snap a horse in half on accident.”

“Yeah, but he would be dramatically sorry about it afterwards. He’d be crying huge, fat tears.” Lúcio appeared momentarily in thought as he began to place used dishes in the sink for washing. “Though I guess I would rather a deliberately hard knee to the gut from 76 than an accidental mauling from the Crusader.”

Reinhardt was capable of picking up his hammer without his armor; it became unwieldy to the point of being impractical for combat, but he could do it. It seemed that if you survived to be an elder while in Overwatch, your body simply began to defy its age.

“I would fathom so.” Reinhardt was always down for a good spar, and while Hanzo had never sought out to do so, Genji had. The one piece of advice that he had was _“dodge or deflect. Do. Not. Block.”_ McCree and Tracer (and Pharah, sharing a knowing wince with Genji) had emphatically agreed. Unless you were 76, according to the elder Amari, who did so on a semi-regular basis. Or Winston, who despite never being seen down in the weight rooms, had hands large enough to wrap around most people’s waists, and managed to move some very heavy instruments and parts around by himself. Or Roadhog, who was firmly in the Somewhere Between Human and Kaiju Club, along with Reinhardt himself and… heh. Hanzo allowed himself to smirk, if only to see the somewhat astounded look on Lúcio’s face. “Although, one would think you were used to the accidental maulings, what with the company you keep.” Because she would be the type to run headlong into one of the Crusader’s pounding blows for the fun of it.

The medic cocked his head, setting his locks to swaying.

“Hana?”

“Hardly. Think bigger.” His smirk widened. He should be more careful, or he’d soon be caught smiling for real. It felt more comfortable than usual. “Pinker.”

Lúcio blinked, and his eyes widened a fraction. He made a show of looking Hanzo dead in the face, and it was somehow not obnoxious. He splayed a hand across his own chest theatrically.

“Was… was that an attempt at humor? I am so shocked that you graced me with it that I will avoid being suspicious as to how you know about… any of what you’re referring to.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes before indulging in another olive. He should probably put these away before he ate them all. After the next one.

“I was there in the kitchen, remember?” Oh, he’d been quite tired, but that hardly meant he’d been unobservant. And it would have been very difficult to miss a tiny Brazilian DJ in a massive Russian soldier’s tank top. One of her pink ones, which was hardly Lúcio’s go-to color. He may have had his mind set on tea, since if McCree was going to bumble over him in the middle of the night, forcing him to rouse from a remarkably peaceful, nightmare-free sleep, he was going to find something enjoyable about it.

It would be a couple days before he could appreciate anything about that night other than the tea, even if Roadhog made for a surprisingly undisturbing tea partner. It had been a long time since he reached the cutting edge of gossip before his brother, and he was going to quietly enjoy it.

“So you were. I was having so much fun tormenting McCree that I forgot.”

“He is fun to torment, yes.” And every so often, he _deserved_ a little tormenting.

Hanzo assisted Lúcio with the dishes; the fish wouldn’t come out of the oven for a while, leaving Hanzo plenty of time to throw some rice in the cooker. More than any other staple in the Watchpoint, rice disappeared the fastest.

“She’s gentler than she looks, you know.” Lúcio had brought out another couple jars of the pureed passion fruit, and had emptied them into the bowl of a sizable food processor. More sauce? Or something else?

“I do hope so.”

Lúcio snickered in between adding cans of condensed milk to the pureed fruit. Definitely not the sauce for fish. Dessert, then?

“Really, she’s very nice. More importantly, she’s perfectly aware how quickly she could ruin someone’s day, so she just… doesn’t. When she wants to, she can be a perfect example of well-trained self-control—“

There was the sound of multiple pairs of boots thundering down the hall, at least one of them accompanied by the light metallic jingle of spurs. The door to the kitchen slid open and two people dove inside like they were being chased, giving a cursory scan of the room as if checking for hazards. Zarya’s tight black and pink workout gear was a common enough sight, but McCree was in an open flannel shirt, boxers, and yet still in his damned _boots._ Like he had no shame. Hanzo would admit that he basically didn’t. He was also sans his hat, which was slightly worrisome. Both were wielding large, brightly colored Nerf guns; McCree a pair of pistols, and Zarya an almost obscene rifle (almost because everyone knew where she had gotten her cannon from, but there was no way what she was wielding now was made for children; if so, Hanzo was more out of touch than he thought).

Both showed Hanzo and Lúcio only the barest interest, instead leaping across the common space to hide behind a couch.

Hanzo pinned Lúcio with a look, eyebrow raised.  
  
_Perfect example of well-trained self-control, hm?_ In her defense, McCree was a great corruptor. He was very good at bringing the maturity level down a couple ranks. The medic just sighed and shrugged, not particularly bothered at having his glowing appraisal refuted, and far more interested in what was going on behind the couch.

Whispers, that’s what. Hissing whispers, loud enough that they might as well be speaking normally, and which assured Hanzo that they were discussing nothing of any even remotely serious nature.

“Now why did ya hafta go an’ do all that?”

And the tone of McCree’s voice, one part brassy exasperation and three parts Having A Great Deal of Fun, told Hanzo that, yes, this was an entirely frivolous venture.

It looked a bit like fun.

“You mean save you? Because you were about to take a grenade to the face, that’s why.”

“I would have dodged.”  
  
“You got shot in the ass trying to retrieve your boots.”

Hanzo resisted the urge to scrub his hand down his face. Lúcio was grinning ear to ear, and trying not to laugh loud enough to interrupt the conversation.

“You didn’t really expect me to leave ‘em behind, didja?”

“Yes.”

“Yer heartless.”

“I am practical.” And she said this while nonchalantly waving a bright green Nerf rifle. The dichotomy was staggering.

“Then ‘practical’ up a way for me to get my hat back.”  
  
“No. You lost it retrieving your boots. It is gone. You can take it back when we win.”

“Ya say this, but I’m tellin’ ya: I’m gettin’ my hat back. If I see an openin’, I’m takin’ it.”

“Then I am leaving your corpse where it falls.”

McCree clicked his tongue in false aggravation.

“Meaner ‘n a junkyard dog.”

Zarya raked McCree with a grin that was almost worrisome in it’s toothiness.

“You sure you’re ready to give up the title, old coyote?”

“Hey, I ain’t mean, an’ I don’t bite.” There was a pause, and McCree’s voice came out in a throaty rumble that made the hair on Hanzo’s arms prickle. He didn’t have to see McCree’s face to know he was beaming. “Unless they want me to.”

She cackled, and gave the cowboy a playful nudge to the shoulder that still threatened to dislodge him from where he knelt behind the sofa. They were like children; big, dangerous children that had swapped their exceedingly lethal weapons for brightly colored foam projectiles and were currently lurking behind a couch. All that was missing was the blanket fort or the tree house. While it appeared like a waste of perfectly useful energy, it was refreshing to watch. Or course, Hanzo secretly enjoyed any excuse to watch McCree be needlessly happy. 

The door to the kitchen opened again, and two more figures slunk their way through, much more quietly than the last two. Hana and Fareeha, each also armed with brightly colored children’s weapons, stalked in through the doorway. Each was also carrying a plastic bag full of… were those water balloons?

Well, that explained McCree’s encounter with a “grenade.”

Still did not explain why McCree was doing this in an unbuttoned shirt and his underwear.

Hanzo did not want those flying around the kitchen; what a wholly inappropriate place for a water balloon fight. Unfortunately, two things happened almost immediately. Hana noticed McCree and Zarya’s really very awful hiding spot, and loudly proclaimed such, which much finger pointing and Nerf gun waving. The second was that McCree, in a move that would have gotten him shot if they were in the field, immediately stood up from behind his “cover.”  
  
“Mah hat!”

And there was more finger pointing and Nerf gun waving.

Indeed, it was perched on Fareeha’s head, like a trophy. She even smiled and tipped it. Neither of these actions stopped her from shooting several foam rounds in McCree’s direction. She missed less because he ducked out of the way, and more because Zarya pulled him back down by the hem of his boxers. There was some snarling from behind the couch that was _almost_ truly angry.

Fareeha smirked from under the brim of the hat. She wore it… startlingly well.

“I do _so_ like this hat, Jesse.”

“I’m sure ya do, dirty thief!”

“Excuse me, I didn’t steal a thing. You dropped it when you rushed our hallway to grab your boots.”

“Everybody here gettin’ after my poor boots…”

“Because that was a stupid tactical decision, that’s why, and you know it.”

“Was it really? ‘Cause I’m wearin’ my boots, and I ain’t dead.”

“Because Zarya came after you like a damned boss.” Fareeha’s grin was wide and playful. “There’s a reason you two don’t have any more grenades.”

Hana popped her bubble gum and continued to brandish her gun threateningly. She took a few cover shots, just to keep them ducking.

“No kidding. Hey, Big Z. You sure you don’t wanna come join the winning side? It was our mistake that we didn’t recruit you first.”

McCree gave a loud, indignant squawk.

“Now wait just a dang minute!”

“Don’t worry, cowboy, we’ll give you a five second head start to escape.” Hana smirked around another pop of her gum.

Zarya was quiet, presumably considering her options. She glanced at McCree, who shook his head emphatically. Her grin was slow, but toothy and dangerous.

“Hm. What’s in it for me?” 

Hana shrugged.

“Winning. Of course.”

Zarya did like to win. So did Hana. Pitting the two against each other was asking for trouble. Pairing the two together created a ravenous monster. Fortunately for everybody, and McCree most immediately, Zarya’s pride was frequently tempered by a great deal of team fidelity; once an allegiance was sworn, she stuck it out to the end. Even over silly things like this. It made her a rapacious sports fan, and a great team player. It was no wonder that Soldier:76 took a grumbling liking to her.

“Then no, thank you. I was planning to do that anyways.” And Zarya took a moment to use some of Hana’s errant pot shots to reload her rifle. McCree looked visibly relieved.

“Your loss.”

“I am not so sure.” She gave McCree a nudge with her elbow, along with a look that could precede absolutely nothing wholesome. “Can you Deadeye with a Nerf gun?”

McCree’s mouth opened, shut, opened again, and it appeared that he really truly had to think about it. Hanzo was tempted to tell him not to be an idiot. It would be as if Hanzo summoned his dragons to use with a water gun; such things were borderline sacred.

“I…I’ve never tried.”

And they shared a conspiratorial grin so vile Hanzo wanted to slap it off _both_ their faces.

“Well then…”

“For science!”

Those were terrible, _awful_ words to leave McCree’s mouth on any given day of the week. And in regards to his Deadeye? He wondered what Ana would have to say about it. Clearly McCree considered that particular art less sacred than Hanzo did. He would have time to ponder over it later; Hanzo wiped his hands on a towel, strode calmly from behind the kitchen counter, out across the dining space and towards where McCree was still ducking behind the sofa.

There was panic at the door, and both combatants there fumbled for the balloons. Fareeha almost knocked her pilfered hat askew.

“Oh _shit!_ ” Even if they were simply foam pegs, the desire to avoid being on the wrong end of McCree’s Deadeye was still very strong.

“Quick! Throw a grenade! _All the grenades!_ ”

Nope. None of that. Not inside the kitchen, certainly, and like hell Hanzo was going to let them ruin a perfectly good couch. Never mind that it would make an atrocious mess.

In one swift move Hanzo plucked one of the two oversized yellow revolvers from McCree’s hands, stood, turned and fired four shots. The first two popped Hana’s bubble gum for her and caught her right between the eyes, respectively. Her surprised yelp was _incredibly_ satisfying. The next two were able to strike the metal emblem on McCree’s hat, and hit Fareeha dead-center in her chest.

It was then that Hanzo realized that McCree’s projectiles came tipped with rubber suction cups. Looking at the results of his work, he could not be happier. Hm, maybe there was something to indulging in these things. Hanzo made a thoughtful sound, before placing the gun back in McCree’s still open hand. He dutifully disregarded the man’s wide-eyed, astounded gaze.

“There. The game is done, and we have a winner. Dinner is in less than an hour, so unless you all want to mop the kitchen before we eat, I suggest avoiding making such a sopping mess of the place.”

Behind the kitchen counter, Lúcio had just about keeled over laughing; he was clutching at the countertop to keep himself upright. Zarya made no such effort; her roaring guffaws were punctuated by the sound of her slapping her thigh, hard. He was sure that if she weren’t up against the back of the couch, she’d be sprawled out on the floor.

McCree continued to stare, and Hanzo continued to ignore him.

It did not take long for Hana to regain her composure, and she came up sputtering.  
  
“Cheater! Sleeper agent! _HAX_! I call HAX!”

Fareeha crossed her arms over her chest. Her expression implied astonishment, disappointment, and betrayal all at once.

“That was… incredibly unsatisfying. Impressive, but unsatisfying.”

Hanzo cocked a brow at her, and gestured to the kitchen.

“If you are looking for satisfaction, then you can help us wash the last of the dishes in the sink.”

Fareeha dropped McCree’s hat onto a nearby chair, grabbed Hana by the elbow, and took off down the hallway.

Hanzo thought not.

Zarya had regained most of her composure, although her face was still quite pink. She was grinning hard as she stumbled into the kitchen, tossing her rifle onto a chair. She clapped Hanzo hard on the shoulder as she passed him. Of course, she and Lúcio lapsed right back into giggling as she rounded the counter.

This whole day had been… startlingly enjoyable. He had spent more time brushing shoulders with residents of the Watchpoint that he had at almost any other time. It was nice. No wonder Genji was quick to return when given the chance. They let him come to them; with the exception of one cowboy with personal space issues, they did not smother him, even when they accepted him.

Said cowboy put one warm, heavy hand on his shoulder (right over the mark remaining from Zarya’s hearty slap, which he was sure was going to leave a bruise to balance out the one he had from Lúcio), squeezing gently.

That was nice, too.

His contemplation was broken by a sharp yelp. Zarya had Lúcio against the counter, brandishing a spoon that she was clearly trying to plant into the mixture of passion fruit puree and condensed milk still in the food processor at Lúcio’s back. No parts of this fight were in Lúcio’s favor; she had already managed to grab one wrist, leaving the medic with only a single hand to fend her off, and her reach was far superior to his. 

Of course, all she really had to do was get him in a secure grapple. She was more than strong enough to hold him at bay with one arm. 

“I am going to taste test it for you.”

“You most certainly will not!”

“I promise this spoon is clean.”

“No. _No!_ No spoons in the mousse! Get out! _Hanzo!_ You got another save in you, man?”

Hanzo scratched at his goatee. 

He had long since reached his tomfoolery quota today, but he was sure he could think of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So writing Hanzo is hard; not sure I'll endeavor to do so again. Unlike McCree, who just kinda writes himself.
> 
> I've had this looked over, but I'll be prowling for typos first thing in the morning. I always find some once I check the traps. :3
> 
> Salmão ao molho de maracujá: I ate this constantly when I last visited my family in Brazil. Like, every chance I got. Passion fruit anything is so hard to find in the States (discounting Hawai'i, where it is blessedly _everywhere_ ), and most people here don't even know what it tastes like. That mango tapioca? Actually happened to me. I was sad.
> 
> The dessert he's making is a passion fruit mousse. Only the best dessert ever created. XD


	7. Injured 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lúcio loses his favorite of his five senses in battle. Zarya helps soothe the hurt. A little bit of Dad:76 to the rescue.

The first thing Lúcio noticed was the _pain._

It took what felt like ages for his brain to clear enough to even register more than the vague sense that he was alive, probably, but the sensation immediately after coming up from the hazy darkness of unconsciousness was pain. So much pain, and it was _everywhere._ Half of his body felt like it was on fire, one of his hands felt like it had been stabbed into unresponsiveness, and his head was pounding. Again, largely a good sign that whatever had just happened had not killed him, but good God was it awful. The groan was reflex, but his dry throat didn’t make any sound at all. A couple deep breaths assured him that he was indeed breathing.

It took far more effort than he liked to start opening his eyes, and he regretted it instantly as he screwed them shut against the blinding light. So bright; was he in the medbay? It was the only place he could fathom that was both brilliantly lit and so damned _quiet,_ like there wasn’t anything to hear at all. Even if there was actually a lot to be heard; machines would be on, monitors would demand attention, and Angela, if she was not at the side of her patients, was often tinkering with some cutting-edge piece of experimental medical tech or another.

Or watching cat videos.

Even if she pretended she wasn’t.

Being on a berth in the medical ward would also explain the incredibly flat, hard, and yet surprisingly warm surface underneath him. An exam table, specifically, although the stainless steel slabs were rarely warm.

And not used for patients; surgical tables had padding, such as it was. He groaned again, at least it sure felt like he did, and decided that if he wasn’t in the medbay that he probably needed to open his eyes and look around. The pain meant he was alive, but it also meant that he was probably _not safe at all._

This was reinforced by the pounding rumbles that vibrated up into his back, and he realized that he was probably lying on the ground. He opened his eyes more slowly this time, turning his head to avoid staring directly into the light. He saw rocks. Grey, chunky rocks with oddly slablike shapes for any natural formation. Not rock, concrete. _Rubble._ He was looking at rubble, and a lot of it. Oh yeah, he definitely was not safe. Opening his eyes also confirmed that his visor was MIA, which meant he was unable to take a vitals check on himself without doing it the old fashioned way. The vibrations grew in strength—footsteps, kinda like giant footsteps, oddly silent but damned heavy—until they felt like they were right on top of him. Something blocked the blinding light (and now that he knew he was lying on concrete, he figured it was the sun), and Lúcio felt it would behoove him to look up. And probably around, for whatever made the rubble. Too bad moving felt atrocious.

The silhouette that cut a dark shape out of the sky was so relieving to see he would have hugged it if he could; Hana’s mech was highly distinctive in form, especially as it was the only mech of it’s type in Overwatch (really the only piloted mech in Overwatch, period). He didn’t hear her eject, but Hana was at his side all the same, leaning over him, one of her hands grabbing at his face as the other flew to his neck, ostensibly checking for a pulse. He was looking at her, dammit, he wasn’t dead, and he tried to say as much. His mouth moved, and it sure _felt_ like he was talking, but damn if he could hear anything at all.

Her mouth was moving too, a couple times it was obvious she was speaking into her comm, and the rest was seemingly directed straight at him. But he couldn’t hear her, and as she spoke at him, he tried to get her to talk louder, over the pervasive, fuzzy silence. She quirked a brow, confused, brushed her hair out of her face and spoke to him again. He made the effort of shaking his head, no, he hadn’t a clue what she was trying to say, and regretted it instantaneously and his head spun. Ohhh, it felt like he was going to puke… but that would probably hurt like hell, too. No puking, please.

Hana was busy giving him a lookover, presumably to see if he had any pieces missing. Her expression was mostly all the same shade of worried, even as she regarded his injured hand, which was kinda great since it let him know that nothing she saw appeared like it would kill him immediately. Probably. Her eyes returned to his face, and her lips twisted into the mild version of her cocky smirk and she spoke to him again, and he really hoped it was something along the lines of congratulating him of his terrible attempt at death. Something caught her attention up by his head, and he felt her brush his hair away from his ears (and the fact that she had to do it at all meant his ponytail had come undone in _whatever the hell had happened to him_ ). He felt her touch his ear, and when her hand came back, it was covered in blood. Oh, that wasn’t good. She leaned over him to look at the other one. Her lips were a pale, thin line as she sat back on her heels, and nodded.

He was bleeding from the ears. He was bleeding from the ears and he could not hear. Whatever had happened to him had ruptured his eardrums, and done who knows what to his middle or even inner ears, never mind the rest of his body. But forget the rest of his body; he couldn’t _hear!_ He couldn’t—! He forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Aside from being somewhat irrational, given that he still didn’t know the extent of the rest of his injuries, he just had to make it back to base. Angela could fix anything.

Seriously, she had brought Genji back from the brink of death. His own ears shouldn’t be a problem.

Unless he had also suffered some form of brain damage in the process.

Breathe.

She might even be able to fix that, too?

He really wanted to take a nap.

Two other people soon loped into his peripheral vision. The first was Junkrat, who made a beeline for them as Hana waved him over. That sharp-toothed grin on his face did not move an inch as he regarded Lúcio on the ground, and when he exchanged words with Hana, who laughed half-heartedly, he knew jokes were being made at his expense. Junkrat could drop a joke at a funeral; Lúcio knew better than to take his demeanor as an indicator of how injured he appeared.

The second person was 76, who flew around the corner at speeds unobtainable by most people without some sort of augmentation, vaulting over piles of rubble like Captain America’s grumpy grandfather. Old man may have a sharp tongue, the moxie to back it up, and the temperament of a shaved wolverine, but Lúcio was quite happy to see that red visor and big blue rifle right about now. Made him feel pretty damned safe, especially as his head scanned the area before kneeling beside him. 76, however, was currently very difficult to read; with that mask covering his whole face, he couldn’t tell if the guy was talking to someone or just looking at them. Like, Hana was clearly talking, but whatever the old soldier’s response was, if there was one, was entirely lost to him. He was tense, though, above even his normal levels of combat-tense. That was bad, most likely. And then 76 removed and activated one of those biotic emitter canisters he had strapped to his person all the time, and all other thoughts were swept cleanly aside. Oh, sweet relief.

Lúcio felt a couple sharp pops in his back and hips before the emitter soothed them away; it was a good thing he hadn’t tried to sit up after all. The burning on one side of his body sloughed away (and, piecing together what he could remember, they probably _were_ burns; it was appearing more likely that he had been caught far too close to some exploding ordinance, which would also explain his probably-concussion and burst eardrums). Speaking of, the immediate ache in his head and ears dulled to something far more bearable, but he realized that it hadn’t done much to repair whatever was wrong with his actual hearing. He swiped a cautious hand over his ears, the most movement he had done in the last few minutes, and looked at his hand. Well, they were not bleeding _more,_ at least.

Junkrat ambled off after something in the rubble that caught his attention, while 76 gave Lúcio what he could only assume was the scowliest of scans. He had no idea what kind of medical status information that visor could provide, as 76 was not prone to taking it off and he was not ever going to ask, but the old man looked him over for a good, long time as the biotic emitter did its thing. Once spent, 76 took a moment to collect it and give another quick look around, before shouldering his rifle and gripping Lúcio by the shoulder.

Standing was… a chore. A dizzying, staggering chore. Just sitting up made his head spin; trying to stand almost put him back down on his face, saved only by 76’s iron grip on his shoulder; if he squeezed any harder, Lúcio was afraid the guy would crush his clavicle. On the other hand, the old soldier let him lean against him, which was not only extremely helpful in keeping Lúcio on his feet (and in the back of his mind, he noted that there must be damage to his skates as well; the hardlight blades were currently nonfunctional), but also just kinda cool. Old codger snarled and barked a lot, but even if he was no fun at all, Lúcio felt safe with him. Like an old stray dog that had taken up sleeping under the house, grouchily ate your food and wouldn’t let you pet him, but would also bite the shit out of dangerous intruders.  
  
Also, everything he did was just kinda ridiculous. If Lúcio lived to be as old and grey as 76, he hoped he was still in such good shape that he put people a third his age to shame, and then still had the nerve to grumble about his back or something.

And it was now very clear: Lúcio was concussed. Whoo! His errant mental wanderings just about confirmed it. Probably inner ear damage too, considering the current state of his sense of balance.

Hana was reluctant to leave him, but after some manner of reprimand from 76—and Lúcio could tell when he was speaking now, he could feel it vibrate out from his chest—she jumped back in her mech. She was their escort back to the ship, he supposed; he was still so dizzy as to be utterly useless, never mind wherever his most-likely-damaged amplifier had gone to, and he had all the mobility of a drunk fish. He was sure that if Soldier:76 let go of him, he’d go right down into the dirt.

Fortunately, old guy seemed to be as stubborn about getting Lúcio back to the drop ship as he was stubborn about literally everything else.

And to show his gratitude, Lúcio only stopped to hurl once on the way there.

* * *

 

The prognosis was about what he expected. Being that close to what was explained to him as a weaponized ballistic explosive—missile? Just use the word missile, 76—had basically wrecked havoc on everything from his outer to inner ear, hence his inability to hear and utterly destroyed sense of balance. Which affected just about everything he did. That was the bad news.

The good news was that Angela could fix it; she had other people in the queue ahead of him with injuries that were more life threatening, so he would have to wait until tomorrow morning for her to put him under and repair the damage, and thank the wonders of modern medicine; not even a hundred years ago inner ear injuries would have required possibly months of physical therapy to heal. Now she’d just need him for a couple hours for the procedure.

Of course, he got all of this through what Hana originally wanted to start as the most complex game of charades ever, until Angela put the kibosh on that with a good write-up of his injuries on a tablet, complete with annotated diagrams of his own ears.

And she could not resist a witty comment about tinnitus, complete with a smiley face. He supposed he had that coming.

Hana herself had a debriefing to get to, which she seemed rather intent to skip until Genji arrived to just about drag her out, with Angela’s obvious encouragement, as she was generally happy when hale and healthy individuals did not take up unnecessary space in her medbay. Which left Lúcio with a small problem; he had begged Angela until she’d agreed to let him take his bed rest in his own quarters until he came in for his exam tomorrow (she had deemed him not likely to die from his concussion, so it was really a matter of arguing about the dizziness). Now his guide was gone, and he’d have to get himself to his own room, which, given his current constant vertigo and poor sense of balance, was going to be an adventure on its own. He’d get there, he’d hobbled home with greater injuries than these while fighting a guerilla war with Vishkar, but it would be…slow going. He elected to sit on that exam table for a minute or fifteen more until the room stopped spinning. Or, at the very least, spun less.

He was so exhausted. And dirty; he could feel grainy bits of battlefield inside of his shirt, but a shower would have to wait until after he had a nap. See also, vertigo and slippery shower floor did not mix, and he was not sure he could live through the embarrassment of having to be rescued from his bathroom.

He might have nodded off right there on the table, still clutching the tablet to his chest, until he felt Angela’s soft, cool hands on his shoulders. He did all he was able to force himself back awake as she gently shook him; he had to at least pretend that he was alright, long enough to flee her keen observation lest she revoke his privilege of resting in his own room. He had to blink and squint before realizing that she had not come alone, reinforced quickly by a much warmer, broader set of hands squeezing his shoulders. While there were a couple other matches in strength on the base, none of the rivals sported pink nails.

He had no idea how she’d known, because he most certainly hadn’t been of a mind to let anyone else know, as it had taken all his willpower to stay awake on the ship until Angela could assess him. He mentioned such, and it was the most disconcerting feeling to _know_ that he was talking, but other than feeling the vibrations in his own throat was otherwise unable to tell that anything came out at all. At least he appeared to be comprehensible, because Zarya plucked the tablet from his hands and scribbled in a corner with a finger before handing it back to him.

_“From Hanzo.”_

From Hanzo? He wasn’t on the mission… but Genji was. Ah, must have made it on down the friendship chain, then. And Hanzo would have let Zarya know because he knew all about…yeah. That made sense.

She also handed him his phone, collected from the meager pile of his things that he came into the clinic with. He planned to tuck it away immediately, but there was a text on the screen that demanded his attention. Not an unusual event on its own, but he never got messages from Torbjörn, _ever._ He opened it, and bit his lip. If the grumpy old engineer had walked by in that exact instant he would have hugged him.

_The skinny rat boy picked up the pieces of all your stuff from the field today. I ain’t got time to make heads or tails of your fancy Vishkar megaphone, and I’m sure ya don’t want me to. I’d be right mad if someone started tinkering with my projects, but parts are another matter. Should be done forging them by the time you get out of Mercy’s care tomorrow, may God help your poor soul. Come and get em so they don’t take up space forever._

He resisted the urge to hug his phone in lieu of either of the two parties in question. Between the old Swede and Junkrat, he had just been saved _days_ of work. This was probably his favorite part of Overwatch; teamwork made the dream work. He’d have to remember to get him something nice. Or something for his kids; Torbjörn always appreciated presents for his family more than anything for himself.

Zarya and Angela were exchanging words as Lúcio gingerly slid off the table. The spinning didn’t get any better, but it didn’t get any worse either. Sooo, progress? He could do this. He _would_ do this. When he turned around, fully prepared to walk towards the entrance to the medical ward and out the door, he was met with one of Zarya’s piercing, appraising stares, generally the kind that came only briefly before she did something about whatever had her bothered. He held his hands up, placating, as that would hopefully stop her from throwing him over a shoulder and marching him down the hall. Or, heaven forbid, scooping him up bridal style.

“Don’t worry about me. I… I got this.”

Angela looked like she rather disagreed, and he knew if he stumbled even a little bit on his way out she would readmit him faster than he could blink. Zarya just smirked, shook her head, and crossed her arms.

And didn’t lift a finger to help him.

Well. More progress.

He managed to maintain the façade of perfect clarity of mind until he strode from the clinic, waving cheerily to Angela as he went, Zarya in tow. He managed to make it all the way to the end of the adjoining hall and turn before he had to lean against the wall and get his bearings. Normally this walk would take the barest few minutes, and that was mostly spent taking the elevators between levels. Now it seemed so much further. He straightened, still supported by the wall, and shot a look at Zarya.

He did not think that she had taken her eyes off of him for the entire trek thus far. She was worried about him, he could see it plainly on her face, which was a sensation that she _hated_ , especially if there was something she could directly do about it. He understood, he really did. Fortunately, so did she; she was proud, as much as anyone else in the base, and quite vocally so. So when he said he wanted to try to get there on his own, for pride’s sake (because it could certainly be disputed that it wasn’t for his health; even he could poke holes in his own argument), then she was going to let him do it. Because if the roles were reversed, she would very much appreciate him allowing her to make her own way.

Good God he was glad Angela couldn’t see any of this because he could just about hear the disbelieving scolding. Which was funny because he couldn’t hear _anything_ right now and…ah, never mind. He supposed it was a bad joke anyways.

Zarya gave him a gentle clap on the shoulder, before making her way to the end of the hall, near the elevator. From there, she set her hands to her hips, canted her head, and waited. Lúcio couldn’t resist a grin. Message received and understood. He took a deep breath, forced his vision to stop swaying so much, and pushed off of the wall.

In all, it took about another ten minutes to reach the Rock’s dorm wings. Given his luck that day, Lúcio had been sure they would have encountered at least a couple other people on the way there, but the hallways were empty. He made to turn down the corridor leading to his own room, he was so close he could literally see it—the decorations helped—but instead was steered gently towards the second wing. He resisted just a little bit; her room was even further away, even if the difference in distance was negligible under normal conditions. But she was insistent, tenderly so, and he let her pull him along for another few moments before being ushered inside a dark room that had become incredibly familiar in the last couple months.

Lúcio expected to collapse immediately onto her bed and sleep, and he tried to do exactly that, because her bed happened to be adorned with the plushest, most comfortable comforter he had ever encountered in his life, including every luxury hotel he had ever stayed in during his newfound stardom. Instead he found himself waylaid as soon as her door began to slide closed, pulled swiftly and fiercely into her arms. Her embrace was warm, simultaneously careful and so very tight, full of all the concern for his wellbeing that she was unable to tell him. He found this to be a more than acceptable alternative, and he let himself sag into her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and she didn’t budge a centimeter under the extra weight. She was saying something, he could feel it rumble up from her chest, but whether it was for his benefit or her own was indecipherable. Either way, it felt nice, with his head against her chest and with one of her hands in the small of his back, and the other cradling the back of his neck. He could feel her murmuring into his hair. He could fall asleep standing right here, if she would let him.

She didn’t. Instead she stepped back from him, and oh his dizziness did not play well at all with the sudden lack of support. He grabbed at her to steady himself, and she let him cling for just a few moments before batting his hands away. His confusion was only momentary as she immediately set about stripping him out of the last of the clothing remaining from combat, such as it was. His tank top was easy enough, and it felt _good_ to get that gritty, dusty thing off of his skin. She seemed to think so, too, taking a moment to brush off his skin before kneeling to peel off the thin underarmor he wore beneath his legplates, leaving him in only a set of bike shorts.

And Lúcio became fully cognizant of exactly how exhausted he was when he could not be assed to make a “you just want into my pants” joke.

He clung to her broad shoulder as she freed him from the underarmor, and was loathe to let go as she stood afterwards, and she had to detach him before fully straightening. She reached towards his ponytail, already a sloppy, half-done mess just to get it out of Angela’s way as she had performed his evaluation, before diverting her attention to one of his shoulders, tracing her fingers lightly over his collarbone.

Soldier:76’s iron grip had indeed left a bruise, not to be confused with all the other abrasions and bruises that littered his skin; the worst of the marks had been soothed away by the biotic emitter, but a few random blemishes remained. Zarya looked him over slowly, as if Angela had somehow been remiss in evaluating him, before returning to the hand-impression on his clavicle. She quirked a brow at him.

“So, turns out that when 76 likes you enough to save you, that still doesn’t quite protect you from the collateral damage of his efforts to make sure you live. Apparently I still don’t hit the Indifference-o-Meter enough for that privilege.”

Her other eyebrow rose to join the first, she snorted, shrugged, and gently, _finally_ , ushered him towards the bed. And by “ushered” he really meant stepped out of his way as he basically just fell face first into her sheets.

And that awesome, _decadent_ comforter.

He would not have moved an inch from where he landed, legs dangling off the mattress, except that she manhandled him up towards the pillows before sliding in next to him. She managed to get the blankets from underneath him to on top of him, and he didn’t even need to move from the face-down position he was enjoying so very much. Lúcio could feel her undo his ponytail and then work her fingers into hair, and it was about as close to heaven as he could recently remember being. And then she pulled him up against her, laying him flush against her side, and he amended that immediately. She was solid and warm, one arm wrapped securely around his shoulders as she cradled his head against her breast, and her hand practically burned against his skin. Her arm was heavy, comfortably so, and between that and the slow rise and fall of her chest and the steady beat of her heart under his cheek was ushering him towards much needed sleep faster than anything else so far.

And then she started humming. Or outright singing, he couldn’t raise his head enough to look at her to tell, and language of origin was completely lost to him, but he could feel the notes resonate deep in her chest, and he lost himself to the rhythm of it. He _never_ got to hear her sing, outside of the screaming rock fest that happened whenever she, Lena and Fareeha happened to be in a car together, and he would have been more upset that he couldn’t hear any of it now except that he could feel it. Against his cheek, in his chest, and vibrating through the rest of him. It rumbled up out of her and if he could have melted against her flank to get closer to it, he would have. Her other hand came up to cup his jaw, drawing him closer, and the hand on his shoulder moved to stroke slowly up and down his back, as if she was trying to replace all the stimulus he was used to getting through his ears with physical contact instead. He nuzzled against her skin, and was rewarded with a slight tightening of her grip.

He fell asleep just enjoying the _feel_ of her, and he figured it was the best physical therapy he ever could have gotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should not be double-dipping my prompts, at least not so soon, but I couldn't resist, even if I can't write fluff worth a damn. XD
> 
> This was published at 0200, and I know there are mistakes in here, but my eyes cannot see real words anymore, so I'll fix 'em in the morning. (And after checking I realized that I had pushed out the chapter five at 2 am, too. Methinks this is a pattern...)
> 
> And the new Zarya comic is ballin' as hell, but it kinda debunks everything I wrote in chapter three... ah, well. I plead fan fiction. XD


	8. Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zarya finds a spider in her room, and Lúcio is entirely Not Cool with how she handles it. Soldier:76 just wants all these kids to go the fuck to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 1000% silly, and I make no apologies. XD

Lúcio wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting when Zarya called him that evening, snarling into the phone in a way that was borderline frantic, and all but demanding that he book it to her room as fast as his legs could carry him, but this was most certainly not it.

“This” being her standing on top of her bed, in nothing but panties and a bra—surprisingly lacy panties and bra, where had she been keeping those?—still clutching her phone in one hand, and a goddamn _handgun_ in the other.

There wasn’t enough _what_ in the world to satisfy how he felt.

He considered backing right out the door and returning to work on the soundboard in his room, which he had abandoned in favor of responding to what he had assumed was either an angry, stubborn call for help or the beginning of a loud rant that he would listen patiently to. He was not sure at all which one of those this was, but he was kinda hoping for neither. If it was a problem or rant that she felt the need to draw a firearm for, he felt wholly inadequate to deal with it.

Also, he wasn’t especially keen on dying or going to jail tonight.

It was not his first time seeing that gun. While her cannon was not always stored in her room (although Lúcio noted that it was currently in its bracket on the far wall, tobelstein core disconnected for safety of storage), that handgun lived in the drawer of her bedside table; Lúcio had stumbled across it one evening while looking for her misplaced communicator earpiece, right there next to mundane things like her tablet, phone charger, ear buds and a small assortment of painkillers and allergy medications. He had asked about it; he knew she carried a sidearm on her person every time she went into the field, “just in case.” This was apparently not the same sidearm, and she had proven such, but this one had a similar purpose.

Which made Lúcio somewhat apprehensive as to why she was choosing to wield it now.

While standing on her bed.

In her underwear.

Hm.

He slipped his phone into a pocket in his shorts before holding up both his hands, hoping to placate whatever had gone dreadfully wrong in here. She was not having any of it, lips curling back into a snarl, growling from atop her mattress.

“You took long enough to get here.”

“You must forgive me. My teleporter was broken.” He hoped his deadpan was enough for her to detect the thick levels of sarcasm; sure, he hadn’t actually run over here, but he was rather timely while responding to a cryptic call that he was now sure he didn’t totally want a part of. It was, not that it mollified her any.

“Do not jest.” And she looked furtively around the room like she was expecting a full Talon ambush. Or Zenyatta. With her, it was roughly the same reaction. “I need you to help me find it.”

She _lost_ something, so she was standing on her bed armed with a _handgun?_ Had she lost her own attacker? He scratched the back of his neck and gave a cursory glance around the room.

“What are you looking for, now?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

He sighed, and shrugged at the room at large. Everything was in its place, with the exception of a few articles of clothing strewn here and there. BDUs. Tank top. Things that she could not put away while she was camped out on top of her mattress.

“Your room is pretty clean; tell me what you lost, and that will help…”

“I did not _lose_ it, it _ran away._ ” 

Well, that was different. Maybe she had lost her own attacker after all. Inside the four walls of her room. Lúcio’s head hurt.

“Huh?” 

Her glare was borderline scathing. He swallowed a gentle comment about how pretty her eyes were, because he did not think she would appreciate it right now.

“You heard me just fine. Your eyes are good; your ears are _better_. Now _help me find it._ ”

And now Lúcio scrubbed his hands down his face, because they had beaten around the bush enough to make it a nice, dry moat. A quick peek revealed her flushed face. She was being deliberately vague with him; whatever she was not revealing caused her either anger, discomfort, or both. Possibly also embarrassment. A gentler approach was clearly required. He sighed again, and began slowly moving what little was on the floor up and out of the way.

“Aleksandra, if you want my eyes to know what to look for, please let me know. Otherwise I’m just going to start pointing at random small objects and asking if that’s what—“ 

As he lifted her cargo pants from the floor, something skittered out from under then. Something brown, furry, and _fast._ Tiny. And with far too many limbs to be a mouse. Zarya’s gaze focused like a laser; he wasn’t quite sure what to call her reaction, somewhere between a full-body recoil and the instinct to pounce like a predator, but he was now getting a pretty good idea what this whole kerfuffle was about.

The little spider scurried straight towards her baseboard before going still, huddling against the wall. Zarya tracked it the entire way.

“Good job. See? This is why I called you.” She breathed slowly and straightened, adjusting her grip on her sidearm. “Now, do not move.”

Lúcio got very little warning (although in hindsight, that fact that he was in this situation at all was _plenty_ of warning) as she raised the handgun and fired. He clapped his hands over his ears and resisted every possible urge to jump several feet in the air and then duck behind some furniture. Zarya’s aim was very good; she was a trained, career soldier, and familiar with a wide variety of firearms. Nothing freakish and borderline supernatural like McCree, but she could hold her own. He figured his subconscious must trust her more than the rest of his body, because he did exactly as ordered, and did not move. 

For all of that, though, it was for naught; after the first three bullets were buried in the wall next to it, the spider ducked around the next three as it scampered into her open closet. Zarya gave an angry hiss through her teeth. 

Lúcio himself had to try not to shriek. 

“ _Holy fucking crap!_ ”

“Shit. Missed.” She growled, trying to peer into her closet while not coming down off the bed, looking very much like an upset cat that did not want to get her feet wet. She gestured to the closet with the muzzle of her gun. “Flush it out. I will not miss again.” She cast him a sideways look. “And get your hands off of your ears. I am using a silencer.” 

She was gonna need to silence him in just a minute, here.

And “silencer” did not literally mean “cause the gun to make no noise,” especially in an enclosed room.

He removed his hands from his ears, but only to gesture wildly to the new bullet holes in the wall and floor.  
  
“Are you serious!?”

She cocked a brow. Oh shit, she was. 

“Yes.” And she gestured to the closet door again. “Go get me my spider.”  
  
“ _No!_ ”

She snorted and scowled at him; he knew that if she wasn’t holding a gun, she would have crossed her arms. As it was, she propped the fist still holding her phone against her hip.

“Do not be a wuss.”

And the urge to violently chicken-neck was mighty ferocious. He gave her an incredulous look instead, because this was the richest hypocrisy he had stumbled into in quite a while.  
  
“Now, _excuse me_. Do you really want to have this argument? Because only one of us is standing on the bed like the floor is lava and trying to kill a teensy spider with _bullets_.”

She snarled, and flushed again.

“It is not that teensy…” 

“ _It. Is. Teensy!_ ” Lúcio resisted the desire to stomp his foot for emphasis, because that was straight childish, and supremely not-helpful.

Zarya’s opinion did not budge an inch.

“Hmph.”

Lúcio sighed, undid his ponytail and ran both hands through his hair. The action had always released a little stress, and boy did he need some of that now. He took a couple slow, deep breaths, wringing his hair. Okay. There had to be something he could sift out of this clusterfuck that actually made any sense at all.

His mind supplied the word _phobia_. The fear-danger-fight-or-flight reaction that was a reflex endocrine response to some or another stimulus, and not always proportional to the actual danger of said stimulus. Which explained why Zarya could look down the “maw” of one of the larger omnics stalking Russia’s borders (which happened to be from where its death lasers erupted from), laugh, and pull the trigger, while Teensy—yes, he had named it already, whoops—sent her scurrying for safety. Part of his surprise was that she did alright with other bugs; that one time in the garden had seen a bumblebee alight on her shoulder. She probably wouldn’t have noticed if Lena hadn’t pointed it out to her. She’d just shrugged, and let it be. She didn’t mind moths and rather liked butterflies, and was surprisingly okay with their respective wiggly caterpillars. McCree had a photo of her from a mission, dotted almost from head to toe with little green planthoppers. So… just spiders, then.

Her fear of omnics was ingrained from childhood, supported by brutal personal experience, and reinforced daily once she had enlisted; where she lived, it was a very real fear that could keep people alive, but one she had gotten a handle on from behind the trigger of a cannon the size of a person. Her fear of spiders was just her brain hitting every panic button that it could find, uncontrollably. 

Still, he could not resist finding amusement knowing that she would gladly fight a grizzly bear with her bare hands (and there was an awful “right to bear arms” pun in there that Hana would groan at him for making), but balk from a garden spider. Ah, well.

Lúcio sighed, rubbed at his face, and messily put his hair back up. Zarya’s eyes flicked constantly from the closet to his face.

“Okay. I think I get it. Kinda. Enough to know that you are probably not getting off your bed until the _teensy_ spider is dealt with.” He made his way to the closet; he would catch it, assuming that he could find it, and in the interest of not wasting any more ammo on a critter that was unable to kill her, would take it back outside where it belonged. Everybody would be happy! “But once I find it, I don’t want you to—“

One pair of shoes. He literally just moved her running shoes out of the way, and the little interloper darted out from under them and took off across the room. Like it _wanted_ to be found. And, for once, he was thankful that his relatively more relaxed reflexes were marginally slower than her adrenaline-soaked ones.

“There it is! I got it!” Her triumphant bark was all the warning he got, even if he could be pretty sure it was coming this time.

Six more shots. She buried six more shots in the floor as the spider made a break for another hiding place. Had he actually grabbed for it, he may have lost a hand. Or worse. The spider faired about as well as last time, tiny and fast and able to avoid its certain death by crawling under her dresser. Zarya swallowed a strangled, frustrated sound.

Well. Now they were back at this again. 

“ _Fuck_.” She looked so very, very done with all of this. Lúcio understood the sentiment. It was too late at night for this. It would _always_ be too late for any of this.

“That’s _my_ swear right now, thank you very much.”

He was not at all keen to flush the spider out again if it was only going to draw another short hail of bullets. Forcibly disarming her was straight out of the question (Normal Zarya, when she wasn’t being deliberately playful and silly, was a pain to grapple with, in every possible way imaginable; Keyed-Up Zarya might put him in traction, if only on accident), so now he needed a way to convince her to put the gun down. The most obvious method was to simply remove the spider, but he needed a moment’s opportunity to do that. Which meant convincing her to not shoot away at Teensy for _ten damn seconds_ so that he could grab it.

That might be harder than it looked, and it looked very hard indeed.

“Before you move the dresser, I need you to pass me the spare clip from the top drawer in the bathroom.”

Because apparently she had already emptied the clip she had trying to kill this spider. 

Lúcio shook his head emphatically; oh no, no no. She had suddenly, if inadvertently, given him the opportunity to end this entire shindig, and he was gonna grab on with both hands.

“I most certainly will not.”

The glower she sent him would have been noticeably more terrifying if she hadn’t made it standing on top of her bed in her panties. Even the accompanying growl did little to help. 

“Lúcio.”

He put his hands on his hips, and kept his gaze definitively pinned to hers.

“ _Aleksandra_.”

The stalemate continued until she groaned loudly, letting her arms fall to her sides, phone and gun still clutched firmly in each hand. She could really put the phone down now, but he somehow doubted that she even realized she still had it. She shrugged broadly in frustration, gesturing with her phone-hand to the other side of the room.

“Would you rather pass me my cannon?”

For the umpteenth time this evening, he marveled at the sheer seriousness of her statement. He felt that if he deadpanned any more tonight, his face would stay like that permanently. The base didn’t need a second Hanzo, though.  
  
“Would I rather pass you a weapon the size of a small motorcycle, that is heavier than I am, because there is a spider under your dresser? _No_ , no I would not.”

“You are being—“

“I got this, okay?” He did his best to use the calmest voice he could dredge up, hoping it would bleed over into her, even briefly. “We’ve tried it your way, dangerous and ridiculous as it was. My turn. This doesn’t need to turn into a whole circus of—“

There was a loud thump, and her door slid open. Soldier:76 bolted inside the room, rifle charged and in-hand, looking very much like he was expecting to find Reaper lurking up on the ceiling or in a corner or some shit. Lúcio had the distinct impression that if the doors hadn’t been electric sliders, he would have kicked it in. Or just dove right through it. Poor guy had apparently finally found a way to relax this evening; the mask, visor, and rifle were all commonplace, but the boxers, baggy t-shirt bearing the name of some old rock band, and comfy, well-loved old slippers were not. At all. Like he'd been having a very relaxing evening before they had gone and farked it all up. Lúcio would have laughed if he weren’t halfway afraid of making sudden movements around two people who were far too on guard for this time of night.

And it became suddenly more clear why none of their nonsense had roused Athena, who had sensors all over this base. She knew, and had called the damned Marshall. The rifle was a _bit_ much, but par for the course of the evening. Lúcio threw his hands up in defeat. There was no fighting crazy.

76 took a good look at the both of them, one still on the bed, the other still wondering what manner of tight hellspiral had become his life right now, and Lúcio heard a hissing sigh from behind his mask.

“What the _fuck_ are you kids shooting at?”

Aaah, so he was not alerted by Athena, but his good ears and reflex instincts. He wondered if the A.I. was instead content to watch this whole thing unfold, as long as they didn’t kill each other.

Except that Zarya’s door had locked behind him. 76 may have loudly abused the lock panel in the hall, but without a code it still shouldn’t have let him in. Not without interference. Something to ponder next time, when 76 wasn’t growling in such a way that made him sound like a particularly constipated Batman.

Both Lúcio and Zarya scowled at each other before gesturing to the bedside table, Lúcio with the tired air of someone who could not believe he had to explain this ridiculousness to someone else, and Zarya as if the reason vindicated her, while gesturing fiercely with her sidearm for emphasis. Both spoke at the same time.

“There’s a spider under there.”

76 didn’t move for long enough that Lúcio was worried that he’d just frozen up with the stupidity of it all, until he noted the rapidly reddening skin of the old man’s forehead. Like, really red. Anger red. Well shit, this was about to get awful. He could see the punishment detail from here…

The universe apparently decided right then that he had suffered enough for whatever transgressions had caused him to be punished so far tonight, and Zarya alerted the whole room with a strangled cry that Teensy was on the move.

“ _There!_ There it is! _See!?_ Get it!”

Lúcio was sure that 76 could see it very well, scurrying across the floor. He was also pretty sure that the old man wouldn’t shoot the poor thing with a plasma rifle, but he had been sure of many things earlier today, and was no longer taking any chances. He snatched the empty glass off of the table along with Zarya’s tablet, scooped Teensy up before it could get any closer to either of the two people more likely than himself to kill it, and put the tablet on top.

Problem. Fucking. Solved.

 _Finally_.

Lúcio held up the glass triumphantly, and Zarya almost flinched away from it when he did so, as if the spider would come flying out and directly towards her face. It didn’t, of course, but Lúcio put a steadying hand over the top of the tablet anyways, to make sure his tiny prisoner stayed put for transport. Ducking around a still cherry red and livid 76 was scary as ever, but he was more than ready to bring this whole thing to an end. And that required getting to a window or deck or something.

He ducked into the hall without another word, kicking off his sandals by the door so he could sprint. Teensy was trying to climb the smooth sides of the glass, to little avail.

Unbeknownst to him, in Zarya’s now very quiet room, it took Soldier:76 all of fifteen seconds to realize that he was still standing in the personal quarters of someone less than half his age and wearing less than a tenth the amount of clothing, and he made the hastiest of retreats that could still not quite be considered running. There was no danger, other than whatever had just happened and it’s effects on what lingering sanity he still had, and it was far too late at night to deal with it.

Punishments for discharging weapons in dorm rooms could come later.

Lúcio wouldn’t call his stroll back from the deck out near the kitchen leisurely, but his relief was palpable. Immediate crisis averted; with much flailing and gun firing and general pandemonium, but averted.

The old man was gone upon his arrival. Zarya was face down in bed, handgun nowhere to be seen, and presumably back in it’s usual home in the drawer. Under most circumstances, she never put her firearms away without making sure they were fully loaded for use the next day. He figured it would instead have to be her first task upon waking up in the morning. She looked extremely disinclined to worry about it now.

She didn’t lift her head when he came inside and shut the door, and gave a quiet grunt when he sat next to her on the edge of the bed.

“Hey.”

“Hn.”

“It’s done.”

She did turn her head to look sideways at him.

“It’s _dead_?”

“No. Just safely back outside, doing spidery things.”

She gave a tired snarl into her pillow before settling, relaxing into her sheets. Neither of them said more for a while, and Lúcio was content with watching her breathing begin to even out.

“So that was an adventure.” She gave a grunt. Tired, but not as sleepy as she looked. He gave her shoulder a playful squeeze. “I learned something new about you, too.” 

“Yes you did. _And you will not tell anyone else, ever_.” She glare she sent him promised all manner of terrible, righteous retribution should the word get out. He had exactly zero intention of doing so, anyways, even if he planned to tease her mercilessly about it for the foreseeable future. How she’d managed to keep it under wraps while enlisted, he hadn’t a clue.

“Don’t worry. I won’t ever tell a soul how I found you panicking in your room, trying to kill a spider with bullets in nothing but your undies.” Dark purple, very lacy, and fit her very, very well. “Speaking of which…” And he lightly thumbed along her bra strap. The look she gave him this time was piercing, without shame, and so utterly suggestive as to make him wonder why the hell he didn’t come back to her room with drinks, because he was going to need one later to cool down. Probably. If she gave him the opportunity. 

“My original plan was to call you over for something completely different.”

“I am now angry at that spider for reasons.”

He felt her low, husky laugh in his chest as much as he heard it. She rolled over onto her back, and his mouth _might_ have gone dry. Better than the alternative of drooling like an uncultured idiot. From her expression, though, that was entirely the intent.

She did not make it any easier at all when she gestured to either garment with a finger.

“It is not as comfortable as it looks. If you would like to help me take it off…”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what my imagination does when I write with a couple *coughmanycough* glasses of wine.
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> [Green planthoppers are adorable.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siphanta_acuta#/media/File:Afplanthopper.jpg)
> 
> This was published as asscrack o'clock in the morning, so I just know I'm missing some obvious and stupid typos. Blah blah, fix 'em in the morning, blah.


End file.
